


A Hot and Copper Sky

by CMTaylor



Series: Oceana [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Action/Adventure, BAMFs, Boats and Ships, Character(s) of Color, Epic, F/F, F/M, Fantasy, High Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Original Fiction, Original Slash, Original Universe, War, Wartime Romance, Women Being Awesome, Women In Power, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-27
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 11:32:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 129,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3445556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CMTaylor/pseuds/CMTaylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anaphe has fallen. The West has denied aid, and Saria seems poised to follow suit. Zathár's march to Armathia has begun, and with him come the armies of the damned, bent on consuming all that lies in their path.</p><p>Windjammer heads northward to the capital, bringing news of Anaphe's fate to the King. On board remains her loyal crew: Ehrin and her lads, who will spare nothing to protect their homeland; Félix, who has turned from his homeland to join the fight against Zathár; and Arden, who stands determined to continue serving the crown and his people by whatever means necessary.</p><p>But will he have to fight alone? And will this fight, like so many that came before, be in vain?</p><p>*There are two books that come before this one; they should be read first.</p><p>**Revised and completed as of 12/1/16</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In the banner -- that's Fiona on the left and Sybina on the right.

 

 

_A Map of the Eastern World_

 

 

* * *

 

 

_The Season of Renewal  
Illár the 10; 2422_

The sun was already bright overhead when Landon emerged from his office to check on the _Rhane_ ’s progress. The midday heat was oppressive; the sky held no clouds and the air was thick and wet, a haze clinging to the water and obscuring the view of the peninsula beyond. Landon had navigated the shipping channel between Lyre and the mainland many times in his career, and knew this to be about as poor as the visibility got when the sun was still shining; the sharp, verdant coastline of Anaphe was no more than an amorphous smudge of blue on the horizon.

“Impeccable timing, Cap,” his Master said, turning away from the rail to beckon him forward. The man had spent the better part of the day on deck, knowing that the indistinct coastline would make navigation around the shoals a challenge.

“Have we drawn too near to the Mounds?” Landon asked, realizing as he did that none of the man’s navigational equipment was in sight.

“We’ve spotted something in the water, Captain,” his Third Lieutenant spoke up from his place at the Master’s side.

“A creature?”

“That’s what I thought at first,” the Lieutenant replied, still squinting off into the distance. “He swears up and down it isn’t.” He turned to his man. “You’ve got sharp eyes; I can’t see a thing out there.”

The Master cracked a smile. “I had better, hadn’t I?”

Landon stepped up to the rail. “What am I meant to be looking at?”

The Master pointed. “Out there, towards the shoals, do you see? It’s a dark patch on the water. Looks manmade to me, something wooden.”

“Flotsam?” the Lieutenant queried.

The Master threw a playful elbow at him. “As if I’d call the Captain over for a trifle.”

“It seems that my eyes aren’t much better than the Lieutenant’s,” Landon confessed. “Keep an eye on whatever’s out there while I fetch my spyglass. Lieutenant, have the lads stand ready at their places; if we need to come about I don’t want to waste any time.”

“Aye sir,” the Lieutenant said, moving to the quarterdeck steps and bellowing out the order before returning to his spot at the rail.

Landon reached into the companionway where his spyglass hung, watching the Lieutenant and Master out of the corner of his eye. Their heads were bent together in quiet conference, hands a hair’s breadth apart on the rail. Landon knew that they still wore one another’s vambraces, which he supposed was a fine and lucky thing when one considered the inauspicious start they’d had a season earlier with the Princess as their unhappy witness.

The Princess’ pointed words on the matter had been debated by his officers in the wardroom for weeks after the fact. It had caused no small amount of tension owing to the different backgrounds from which island naval officers came, and Landon had been thankful when it was all said and done.

Locating his spyglass, Landon headed back towards the cap rail. “It’s a good thing we’re through escorting that Lyrian merchant, else we’d not have time for this,” he said, returning his focus to the area the Master had indicated.

“I’m glad to see the backside of them regardless,” the Lieutenant muttered.

Landon’s lips ticked upward as he swept his gaze back and forth across the waves off their port quarter. “And for that I can’t blame you.”

“We’ve had some _interesting_ assignments thrown our way these past few months.”

“It’ll be good to get back on patrol again.” Landon frowned. “Where did you say you saw this thing?”

“Just north of Whale Rock, sir.”

Landon adjusted his spyglass, freezing when he finally caught sight of what the Master’s well-honed gaze had noticed. “Longboats,” he murmured, attempting to sharpen his spyglass’ focus to better make out the shapes before him.

“More than one?” the Master asked.

“I think so, yes.”

“Your orders, Captain?”

Landon didn’t take his eyes off of the blurry vessels in fear that he would lose them as soon as he did. “Have the lads round up to a beam reach, port tack. Tell the coxswain the Master will inform the course.”

“Aye, Captain,” they said in near-unison, knuckles brushing on the cap rail before they parted to perform their separate tasks.

Landon knew his ship to be in capable hands during such a basic maneuver and saw no need to oversee his Lieutenant’s work. Within moments he felt the _Rhane_ begin to shift beneath his feet, swaying as she rounded up, square sails braced for the changing angle of the wind. Landon spared a glance for his windward shrouds as they took the strain of this new point of sail. Although the beam reach slowed them some, the wind felt fiercer now that they were no longer running with it.

“How’s our course, Cap?” the Master called from the helm.

“We’re pointed downwind of the lee vessel. Hold her steady and have the lads stand by at their stations. If these boats are manned I want to heave-to before we start any rescue maneuvers,” Landon replied, eyes trained ahead as they began their slow approach.

A loud thump informed him that his Lieutenant had returned from directing the course change amidships. “Longboats you said, Captain?” he asked, coming to stand beside Landon at the rail once more.

“At least two, perhaps three.”

“That’s an odd thing, so far from shore with no sign of the vessel from which they came,” the Lieutenant noted. “Can you see anyone inside?”

“I think so, though it’s difficult to tell. If so, they’re damned well lucky to have escaped the notice of the creatures.”

“They’re shallow enough, aren’t they?”

“Perhaps,” Landon admitted, putting down the spyglass to rub at his eyes, which ached from the glare of sun on sea.

“Wreck survivors?” the Master asked, stepping up beside them.

“It seems that way,” Landon replied, giving another long blink before fitting the spyglass back to his eye. As soon as he did, he realized that they had been spotted; he could just make out the shape of a man standing in the prow of one of the longboats, waving something white – a shirt, perhaps – back and forth above his head. “They’re flagging us down.”

“I’d be flagging us down, too, if I was in a boat that size with nothing but oars to my name,” the Lieutenant replied.

“Three longboats,” the Master said as they pulled closer still. “I can see the sailor trying to signal us. They’re all full to the brim, aren’t they?”

A thought struck Landon at that. “You don’t suppose they’re from Anaphe, do you?”

“We did get word of an evacuation when we were over on the Gulf coast,” the Lieutenant said, drumming his fingers against the cap rail. “It sounded like the city was in a bad way, Captain.”

They drew nearer still, until the shapes of each of the three packed longboats and all those who huddled within sharpened in the barrel of his spyglass. Having realized that they had been spotted, many of them had thrown up their arms and began to wave, a flurry of color and activity that made it difficult for Landon to parse exactly who and what he was looking at. He caught snatches of blue in each of the boats and knew them for the uniforms of navy men, yet some of the survivors appeared to be anything but. “What in Ranael’s name?” he wondered.

“There are women sitting alongside navy men, Cap,” the Master noted, keen vision letting him see much of what Landon did without the aid of a spyglass. “That’s unusual.”

“An escort, perhaps?” Landon wondered as the Master reached out and grabbed his arm, pointing with his other hand.

“Look sir, in the prow of the second vessel – do you see?”

Landon looked. There in the middle longboat sat a man draped in a deep blue coat, a hint of golden brocade reflected even at that distance by the bright midday sun. “ _Fángon_ ,” Landon swore, everything coming together as he realized just who he was looking at. “Prepare to take passengers aboard, and have the cabin steward make up our finest state room right quick.”

“Captain?” the Lieutenant asked, glancing back and forth between Landon and the Master.

“Hop to it; we’ve got no time for hemming and hawing,” Landon continued, looking out at where the longboats drifted, no sign of the ship from which they had come in sight. “We’re about to have an Admiral on board, gentlemen – and not a very happy one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
> 
> Special thanks to: Nemay, Loladai, Aerun, Zello, rae534, hocus, Stiles, and ANingtoRemember for all of your lovely comments and kind words.
> 
> SUPER special thanks to: typervoxilations for all of your support, prodding, and bribery; and to Avanie for your INCREDIBLE beta work on books one and two -- this story is better because of your help.
> 
> I AM SO PROUD OF MY NEW MAP okay deep breaths.
> 
> For those of you who read book two before the big 2/26/2015 edit:
> 
> You will want to reread the following chapters, or base what you know about book three off of the shorthand comments I'm leaving below:
> 
> Chapter 3: The councilor formerly known as Murrin (which was a terrible name -- what was I thinking?) has been changed to Lester. He is also now Oceana's former emissary to Dramor, who has admitted to being bribed by Garo (Imran's father) to leave information out of dispatches.
> 
> Chapter 5: In this chapter we learn that Zathár has spoken to Sybina, and that her call aided him in breaking free from the locker. Instead of being a 2D strawman antagonist, Sybina has developed into a visionary with great conviction and strength. I *really* recommend rereading her scenes.
> 
> Chapter 6: Brand new Sybina scene [vision of Zathár]. Also notes that Obed and Alvar are aware of her existence. This chapter and those that follow it are also edited to have all spoken Dramorian reflect the way Imran spoke it in the first book.
> 
> Chapter 7: The two Sybina scenes on the Rhane have been completely revised -- particularly the scene with Ehrin.
> 
> Chapter 8: The scene where Sybina meets Samir is entirely different; he is a vassal and follower of hers.
> 
> Chapter 10: Sybina shows up three times in this chapter. Her interactions with Val at the beginning of the chapter are edited; there is a brand new scene featuring her in the middle of the chapter; the vambraces/reveal scene has been partially rewritten.
> 
> Chapter 12: My glorious beta pointed out that the hope that Val and others had for Anaphe contrasted sharply with the way that Anaphe fell; most of the edits that went towards conveying their pessimism are in this chapter. There is, of course, a rewritten Sybina scene in here as well.
> 
> Chapter 15: You probably don't need to rewrite this, but I wanted to mention that I've tweaked the tone of the interaction between Felix and Olivier to better reflect the fraught nature of their relationship (and tweaked, earlier, some of what F said about their relationship to try to reflect that they do, in fact, still care about one another in their own way).
> 
> Chapter 16: Sybina's scene is rewritten, the scene between Val and his men is structured differently and more pessimistic in tone (it also ends less abruptly). Lester is edited into Siath and Verne's conversation about Saria, Alvar's use of Dramorian is tweaked.
> 
> Chapter 18: This entire chapter really needs to be reread minus the Fiona/Malcolm bits -- the changes are pretty dramatic, and there are two brand-new Sybina scenes. The bones of the endgame poison scene stayed the same, but the entire interaction between Sybina, Val, and Fiona was rewritten almost from scratch.
> 
> If any of you do wind up rereading those scenes, I would LOVE some feedback on the change. I think the story is way more interesting with Sybina as a stronger character, and when I read back and saw that I had gotten lazy with her and written a pretty uninteresting female antagonist I was *very* annoyed with myself, so. Hopefully it'll go better this time around.
> 
> Phew. Onward!


	2. Chapter 2

_The Season of Renewal  
Illár the 20; 2422_

He woke up.

With a sticky blink the rough wooden paneling of the cabin came into focus, and he knew where he was. He rolled over and looked at the weathered brass port light, estimating the time based on the angle of the sun. It was almost noon. He shut his eyes again, feeling sleep pull at his mind. No – he should get up. His watch would start soon.

His eyelids were heavy, lifting only with an immense exertion of effort. The shelf beside his head swam into focus; a treatise on Western dialects lay face down atop a few sheets of scrawled-upon paper, having taken up residence there some weeks earlier. A small pot of salve for burns sat next to it, its lid askew. A handful of trinkets and curiosities purchased from the Zarándrian market littered the backside of the shelf. Nestled among them was a loop of cord upon which freshly-carved Ithakan prayer beads were strung.

A pair of worn leather vambraces negotiated the space between the salve, the trinkets, the beads. Though scratched and scored from countless battles they remained sturdy and serviceable, the swirling golden lines of the Regent’s crest pressed into their surface. Arden stared unblinking, numb, at the familiar sigil, hand coming up to clutch at the pendant that hung about his neck.

These small tokens were all he had left.

He stared until his eyes burned, until his vision began to blur around the edges. The ship’s bell rang. It was noon. He shut his eyes.

…

“Well short-haired, I don’t see _you_ leaping up and grabbing a deck brush,” Niko grumbled as he followed through with Callum’s order to scrub the leeward side of _Windjammer_ ’s main deck.

Félix’s features were drawn with irritation but he rose to the challenge, snapping up the remaining brush with a muttered snatch of Belenese.

“What’s the matter, _Commodore_ – too good to do the work of a common sailor?” Niko continued.

Arden looked up from amidships where he was re-painting a hatch. “Knock it off, Niko.”

“Awh c’mon, Jack—”

“Don’t test me,” Arden growled through gritted teeth, turning his sharp stare upon the Ithakan.

Niko deflated at his words. “Alright, yeh. Apologies.”

Arden focused on his work once more, not noticing the measured glance Félix sent his way. After another moment he let out a curse, stalking off in search of more paint thinner.

“Meaner than a blue-jacket sea-wasp,” Niko sighed, turning his attention to the salt crusted on the midships cap rail.

“He is grieving,” Félix said.

“And what’s it to you, short-hair?”

Félix frowned, stopping mid-swab to send a glare Niko’s way. “I do not enjoy this pet-name you have for me.”

“Pet-name?” Niko laughed. “Hardly.”

“Then call me by my true name.”

“Not a fan of short-haired, are you? I suppose it’s a bit fat on the tongue. How about just ‘short’, then?”

Félix arched a brow at him; Niko’s compact frame barely reached his shoulder. “Then what will I call you? ‘Midget’?”

Niko gaped. “What?”

“Believe it or not,” Arden said, returning to the deck with a jar of turpentine in one hand, “Félix _does_ have a sense of humor.”

“As he says, Midget.”

“Jack,” Niko protested, “you can’t just let him call me that—”

Félix snorted. “As you Oceanic say, I believe you have ‘earned it’.”

“Hey there, lads,” Ehrin said, popping out from the main companionway, “anyone for some coconut water?”

“Who’s on the helm?” Arden asked, squinting at the quarterdeck.

“Da relieved me. Water?”

“That’d be nice, yeh. Félix? Niko?” Arden turned.

“Midget and I will each have a glass, Miss Ehrin,” Félix replied.

Ehrin looked back and forth between Félix’s sly smile and Niko’s indignant spluttering, a grin spreading across her features. “Alright, lads. Who’s going to help me carry the glasses?”

Niko couldn’t get off of the deck fast enough, leaning his brush against the foremast shrouds before disappearing down into the galley. Félix let out a quiet laugh, turning his attention back to a salt patch on the foredeck steps.

He and Arden worked in silence for some time, enjoying the hush of a late afternoon passage through the Gulf. Niko’s muted complaints carried forward towards him on the breeze, but even they couldn’t spoil his calm. The mood on board had been low ever since they had passed Anaphe, and he was glad to have the distraction of hard work and a brisk sail to take his mind off of the events of the past few weeks.

Félix turned to begin scrubbing at the scuppers, noticing as he did that Arden had ceased working in favor of staring, paintbrush in hand, out at the horizon. He had known, of course, that the Oceanic would all be grieved by the news of the Regent’s demise, but the lingering slump in Arden’s shoulders and the change in his demeanor had taken Félix by surprise. Matters of hierarchy were strict in Belen, and Lords and their vassals rarely developed the sort of friendship that would predicate such a period of mourning.

He heard Arden take a breath and turned back to the midships housetop. The man’s mouth was open, eyes fixed on Félix, caught halfway between thought and speech.

“You have more questions for me?” Félix surmised. They wouldn’t be the first. Over the past several days, Arden had spent his off-watch hours either alone in his cabin, or interrogating Félix on the finer details of his time ashore in Anaphe, trapped between mourning the certainty of the Regent’s death and yet being unable to believe that it had come to pass.

Arden shut his mouth, a self-deprecating smile flitting across his features. “The men you spoke to in the tavern—”

“My countrymen. We spoke in Belenese. There was no room for misinterpretation.”

Arden let out a frustrated noise, jabbing his brush into the turpentine. “I know that. Gods, I _know_ that, but I keep sitting here wondering if there was a way, thinking that this can’t possibly be it—” His voice grew choked and he broke off, head bowed, fighting for control.

“You remember when we first met. You remember that I had the same doubts about the _Madesta_ ’s shrouds, about the lives of my men, even when I had seen much of it with my own eyes.”

“I remember.” Arden had returned his stare to the horizon once more.

“You do yourself no favors by denying what you know to be true.”

“I know.” He shook his head. “I’m only a man, Félix. I’m afraid I can’t help it.”

Félix leaned on his deck brush. “You are also a leader of men.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Arden replied, hand straying to the silver filigree pendant that hung next to his talisman.

Ehrin and Niko returned to the deck as he spoke, bearing a handful of mugs between them. “Jack?” she asked, kneeling up on the housetop beside him.

Arden wiped at his eyes with the back of a hand, taking a deep breath. “It’s nothing, Ehrin. Thank you for the coconut water.”

Ehrin looked over at Félix, brows raised in inquiry. He shook his head. “Alright, then – you’re welcome. Don’t get this mug mixed up with the turpentine, now; I’ve done it in the past and it’s a nasty surprise.”

Arden let out a huff of disbelieving laughter, turning a small smile her way. “One would think the Lady of the Galley would know better.”

Ehrin landed a playful slap on his arm before sliding from the housetop and turning towards the helm. She passed Niko on her way. “Well? Aren’t you going to bring Félix his mug?”

Niko grumbled out a response, striding up the deck and thrusting the mug out in Félix’s direction. “Happy, short-haired?”

Félix took the mug with a sharp nod. “Many thanks, Midget,” he replied. Niko rolled his eyes, responding with an Oceanic turn of phrase that Félix didn’t need to understand to know for an insult. He saw no need to retaliate; the bickering he and the Ithakan engaged in was a far cry better than the stony silence that had preceded it, and he had sailed with enough men like Niko to know that it was mostly done for show.

He took a seat on the foredeck steps to properly enjoy a long draught of the cool coconut water, deck brush at his feet. As he took his respite from the day’s work he turned his attention back to Arden. A sad smile had worked its way across his features, gaze focused on the horizon once more.

“You alright there, Jack?” Niko asked from the leeward side of the deck, startling Arden from his reverie.

“Just woolgathering,” he said, setting his mug down and standing. “If you’ll excuse me, lads.” Without another word he had disappeared down the main companionway.

Félix stared after him, wondering what he was missing.

…

Félix palmed the little piece of fresh fish he would bring to appease the cat that guarded Arden’s cabin, a copy of the Eastern Scriptures in his other hand. He thought the practice of worship a waste of time – he saw little difference between a creature like Zathár and those described as ‘gods’ by the Oceanic – but knew that he was doing himself few favors by failing to understand his new allies. Besides, while he found the bit about magical ships ridiculous, he had to admit that a certain amount of wisdom was contained in the ethics the Scriptures championed.

The Books had gotten much of Madestan history wrong as well, but that didn’t surprise him. They were penned by men, after all, recalling the words and deeds of creatures who were anything but. Félix understood firsthand the many imperfections of memory and perception, and didn’t put too much stock in the details of accounts that couldn’t be corroborated by history books.

Despite their imperfections, however, Félix had enjoyed the read. He decided he’d refrain from telling Arden as much, however; he hated nothing quite so much as having his judgment errors remarked upon.

As he approached the open door to the cabin, he realized he had picked a poor time to stop by for a visit. The room looked as though it had been hit by a waterspout, books and papers littered everywhere. Arden stood at the epicenter of the chaos, digging through his sea chest, flinging items impatiently over his shoulder in single minded pursuit of whatever object he sought. From the back side of the cabin Mizzen darted out, scampering around a pile of books to wind around Félix’s ankles in search of her promised treat.

He dropped the morsel of fish on the floor for the cat to take. She snapped it up and ran back beneath the bunk, dodging flung objects as she went.

“I take it you have lost something,” Félix said, leaning up against the door jamb.

Arden didn’t even look up from his sea chest. “I had a manuscript somewhere in here. It was a rare one, a memoir of a nobleman who lived through Dramor’s last siege on Anaphe—”

“Hm.” Félix stepped over a silver-stamped breastplate to leave the Scriptures at the corner of Arden’s desk. “You have checked your shelves?”

“Of _course_ I looked at the books on my shelves – I’m not an idiot,” Arden snapped. “I can’t remember whether it’s somewhere in here or whether I brought it up to my rooms in Armathia.”

Félix lifted his hands as if to ward off Arden’s foul temper, turning his attention to the volumes he was interested in reading. Did he want to continue his study of Oceana with a book on military history, or the cultural practices of islanders? He reached for a book on Kilcoran, wondering when it was written, when Arden let out another bitten-off curse, slamming his sea chest shut. He clutched a glass jar in one hand, half-full of amber liquid and what Félix assumed were mangoes.

“Did the jar insult your mother?” Félix asked, aiming for levity. He realized his mistake as soon as Arden looked up, fury etched across his features.

“How fine it must be, when one of your cities hasn’t fallen and all of your loved ones are accounted for,” he snarled. “When you haven’t spent the past week sleepless, asking yourself what you should have done differently, knowing that you have failed in your duty to both your people and your family—”

“ _I know about failure and loss. You’ll have to forgive me for not wanting to indulge your wallowing_.”

Félix winced as Arden hurled the jar at his bunk, certain that it would smash into a thousand impossible-to-find pieces. He breathed a sigh of relief when it thumped into a pillow on the far wall and fell onto the mattress with a harmless bounce.

“How dare you make light of this when it’s your actions that put us here to begin with?”

Félix took a step back as Arden rounded on him. “ _You say that as though I am like your Illen, and can point my finger at a city to make it crumble. I’m not blameless – none of us are – but don’t act as though I dismantled Anaphe with my bare hands_.”

“No, but your people were there in your stead, fighting in your name.” Arden had him backed nearly into the corner of the desk. “How many more votes would we have won at the tribal council if you hadn’t spent months convincing them to fight for a demon? How many men would we have brought to aid in the defense of Anaphe? How many allies would we have won for Madesta and Oceana alike?”

“ _What are you getting at_?” Félix ground out.

“Valory’s death—” Arden’s voice cracked. “His death – all of their deaths – are on your hands: you, for acting a fool and falling for Zathár’s manipulations—” He broke off without warning, spinning away and clutching his head in his hands. “Gods,” he whispered, shoulders sagging like empty sails. “Listen to me, shouting at you as if it’ll bring him back.”

Félix shifted, reaching out to lay an awkward hand on Arden’s shoulder. “ _I do not grudge you words of anger at a time like this. Such things are expected_.”

“Perhaps you should.”

“ _Then I look forward to the ales you owe me when we next make port_.”

He earned a valiant attempt at a smile for his words. “I apologize, Félix. I don’t wish to quarrel with you. I’m furious – with Dramor, with the demon, with myself, with Valory, with the gods-damned wind for not blowing harder—” He rubbed his palms down his face.

“I am not blameless,” Félix repeated.

“Nor is his death on your hands,” Arden said, voice catching on the words. “I just—” he shook his head. “Valory was a good man. He was the best man that I knew. He didn’t deserve this fate, and I can’t help but believe I could have done something to prevent it.”

Félix found that he wasn’t unaffected by the sight of the other man’s grief. “Didn’t you once tell me that not even children of Illen can turn back time?”

Arden sunk down to sit upon the lone chair in his cabin. “I suppose we can’t.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, eyes glittering with the tears he stubbornly refused to shed.

“You wish for me to leave you in peace,” Félix half-guessed, half-hoped.

“Please.”

Félix made a blind grab for the bookshelf, selecting a volume at random. “I will see you on watch,” he said, slipping out of the cabin and shutting the door behind him.

“You alright, Félix?” Ehrin looked up from the table in the salon a few paces away. She had a long, thin knife in one hand and was wrist-deep in the viscera of the massive grouper Lars had speared earlier that morning.

Looking down at the volume he held, he realized that he had grabbed the book on Kilcoranian customs. Hoping she hadn’t noticed it, he rolled his shoulders in a subtle attempt to hide it behind his back. “Your First Mate is having some difficulty.”

“Yeh,” she sighed, making another cut with her knife, “I know.”

“You Oceanic take fealty to an extreme I have not before seen.”

Ehrin cocked her head, regarding him for a moment before realizing what he meant. “Arden and the Regent?”

“ _He grieves his liege as one would a bosom friend_.”

“Oh, Félix,” she sighed, putting down the knife and wiping her hands on her apron, “don’t you see?”

“See?”

“C’mere.” She grabbed his elbow, steering him towards he galley where their words wouldn’t carry.

He hopped up onto his usual seat on the countertop. “Explain this to me. I understand that he thinks he has failed in his duty, this is his right, but do all Oceanic take duty to their heart of hearts?”

“That’s not the whole picture.” She came to stand beside him.

“What do I misunderstand? A Steward is a vassal of high rank, yes?”

“They were _lovers_ , Félix.”

He froze. “Lovers?”

“You can’t mean to tell me you’ve never seen such a thing, with all the years you spent in the navy.”

Félix shook his head. “That is not—” he switched to Belenese. “ _I hadn’t thought that such practices were conducted out in the open, not even in Oceana_.”

“They aren’t – at least, not among the highborn. I s’pose they were a special case. You know Arden’s story, don’t you?”

“I know he sailed with your mercenary crew for a long time,” Félix said, confused.

“As a common sailor,” she stressed, and comprehension dawned.

“Ah. You knew him to participate in . . . that, and so when you learned his title he did not hide it.”

“ _Windjammer_ is family – he’s got nothing to fear from us.”

“Is it your father who is so lenient?” Félix asked.

“Lenient?” She shook her head. He got the impression that she was displeased with him. “I guess I should have known that colonies of Dramor would follow Dramorian laws. You don’t permit unions between sailors in Belen, do you?”

“It isn’t . . .” he trailed off, grappling for words. Though he had tried to rely more on Oceanic of late, he still found himself without words on occasion. “ _It’s not unheard of. It *is* a hanging offense, as you said, and while there are some commanders who are willing to overlook such indiscretions, those men are few and far between._ ”

“Is that why you asked me if my Da was lenient? Because you thought he’d have hung Jack the day we learned he wasn’t interested in lasses?”

“Or let him off at the next port. It is considered a distraction. A deadly one.”

“What, in battle?” she asked. “Don’t you think that two men who share a bed would fight hard to keep one another from harm? I’d think they’d make fine warriors. Isn’t that what your people prize?”

He knew for certain that she was upset with him, and fought to find the words to explain himself. “We do not follow Dramor’s laws with blindness. You have hit upon the reason we cannot permit such unions. It is the attachment that creates the risk. Such a man would save his mate instead of his commander, or instead of his mission. Do you understand?”

“What about those in other classes?” she pressed. “Are they bound by the same laws?”

“All Madestan men serve in the military, Miss Ehrin. It is compulsory.”

She studied him out of the corner of an eye. “What of you, then? Were you the sort of Captain who looked the other way?”

“That was dependent upon circumstance.”

Her gaze sharpened. “What kind of circumstance?”

“I did not listen to rumor or the words of others. To punish it, I had to witness it with my own eyes – and only the Captain may deal punishment upon a Belenese warship.”

“So anytime you suspected, based on the way two lads were with one another—”

“You misunderstand me. I did not like it when men consorted aboard my ship because I thought it bad for morale, but I did not interfere with the personal lives of my crew. If they kept it below my notice and the crew was content then it made no difference to me. It was only when men began to shirk duties in favor of other activities that I was forced to step in. Do not think I would see a sailor hung for soft looks or soft words. I am not that kind of a man.”

“So when did you hang them?” she challenged.

“Allow me to finish. I said I would punish a man when he proved to me that he gave priority to his companion instead of priority to the good of the ship. You are a sailor, Miss Ehrin. You understand why I could not permit such a thing,” he said, meeting her eyes.

“So your bo’sun got another pair of boots then, is that it?”

“I did not say that. I only said that punishment was due. I did know commanders who liked to – how do you say, when you run a man beneath the hull—”

“ _Keelhaul_? For _that_?”

“Yes. Others gave lashes, or denied rations. I did not. I found such methods to be as bad for morale as the initial problem. All I wanted was for that man to be off of my ship, and off my ship he would go.”

She cocked her head. “You tossed ‘em in the sea?”

“Belenese ships are rarely so far from the coast that they could not swim to shore. It would not be pleasant, no, but they would live and I would not have to worry that they would betray me for the sake of a lover.” He shook his head. “ _You also have to understand that any sign of weakness from a leader is an invitation to mutiny. By the time I noticed misbehavior in my crew, the situation would have become dire. If I failed to act, my officers would think me weak for it, and soon enough it would be I swimming to shore in nothing but my undergarments._ ”

She turned towards him, indicating that she judged his actions to be less heinous than she had originally thought. “Don’t you think that the connection between two of your crew would start to interfere with duty because they had to keep it a secret? If they weren’t allowed to be near one another, they’d have to steal time, wouldn’t they?”

Félix let out a long sigh. Having his long-held beliefs constantly challenged was an exhausting process, and he wasn’t at all sure what to think about two men together in such a way. Yet he couldn’t deny that Ehrin’s argument had some logic to it. “You may not be wrong.”

“I know I’m not.”

“You say that, but if the only lovers you have ever seen at work were your First Mate and the Regent, well – _I’m afraid you’ve chosen a problematic example. While they do fight well together, I can’t imagine another situation in which fighting to save one’s commander also aligns so perfectly with fighting to save one’s lover_.”

“And when failing to do so means that both fall,” she noted.

“As you say.”

Ehrin turned away once more, staring down hands that had twisted in the strings of her apron.

“Did you know him?” Félix asked, guessing at the trajectory her thoughts had taken.

“The Regent? Yeh. I guess we all did. It’s a tough loss, but . . .”

“You mourn on Arden’s behalf,” he surmised.

She nodded. “I wish I could say or do something to help. He’s just not himself these days, and I understand, I do, but—”

He trailed a hand across her shoulders, wrapping her in a half-embrace. Something warm fluttered within him when she leaned in, resting her head upon his shoulder. It was a kind of closeness that had become easy and comfortable between them, for all that they remained wary of one another. “You cannot make this better for him.”

“I know. There’s nothing I can do.”

“You are his friend,” he reminded her. “That is something.”

“Thanks, Félix,” she murmured.

They fell quiet for some time. He knew that she was grieving, could see the occasional tear track its way down her cheek, and hoped that his silent presence was enough of a comfort. He had a way with words, that was true, but that tended not to apply outside the political arena. He let his thoughts wander, considering his own family, his brother. He wondered where Olivier was, and whether he yet had cause to regret his decision.

His stomach rumbled. Ehrin laughed, lifting her head and wiping at her eyes. “You and your bottomless pit of a stomach,” she said, amusement and grief warring for control over her features. She pulled away from his arm, opening the door to the larder. “Here, let me fix you a quick snack.”

“That is not necessary—”

“Easy as pie, and I mean that literally – I’ve still got a few slices left over. Tell you what, I’ll have one with you. Nothing does the heart better than a sweet treat.”

“As you like.”

“Feeding you lads up also does wonders for me, I hope you know,” she continued.

“We will have pie, then.”

“Good,” she said, glancing back at him with a mischievous grin. “And while we do, you can tell me all about why you’re reading a book on Kilcoranian cultural practices.”

“I—” he gaped, head whipping around to fix on the book he had unthinkingly left face-up on the counter beside him.

“This sounds like it’s going to be an excellent story – just the thing to raise my spirits,” she said, plopping the tray of pie down between them. “Here’s your fork. Now, start talking.”

…

“How are you holding up, lad?”

Arden turned towards the helm to see four pairs of eyes regarding him with no small amount of pity and fought to hold back a wince. “Well enough, Cap – thanks for asking.”

“If you need anything—”

This had become a nightly routine. “Thanks, Ehrin. I’m alright.”

“Bow watch, Jack?” Jonah offered from his perch on the gear box. Arden sent a prayer up to Illen for small mercies, knowing that Jonah was well aware of the boon that he’d granted.

“Come relieve me in an hour’s time.”

“You’ve got it, mate.”

Arden wound his way up the windward side of the deck, taking the foredeck steps to the capstan where crouched to keep his head beneath the staysail boom. It was another cloudless night, the haze of the day giving away to a brilliant, star-studded sky. It wasn’t the right moon cycle for firefish, but he could still see the occasional pricks of light in their wake.

Leaning his head against a spoke of the capstan, he reached into his pocket for the set of prayer beads Niko had carved for him some days past. He knew his brother was partial to them but had never before used a prop when saying his prayers. He suspected he still wasn’t much for carrying a string of beads around in his pocket, but there was something comforting about having the handmade item sitting there, a silent show of support from his brother-in-arms.

He flicked a bead. “Illen, Captain of the _Ship of the East_ , if you will see fit to hear my prayer,” he whispered, eyes trained on the dark waters before them. “I remain ever your humble servant. I know it presumptuous of me to ask any favors of you after all that has come to pass, but please—” He took a steadying breath. “Tell Conrad . . . tell him that I’m sorry for failing him – for failing both of us. I swore I would do him proud, yet my efforts came to nothing, and brought little honor to our office and our House as a result.” He swallowed past the thickness in his throat. “I have broken my oath to guard the man I was bound to serve. For that I expect neither forgiveness nor redemption, only – I would have him know that none is more grieved than I.”

“He’s dead,” Arden whispered, stumbling over the word. “He dead, and I’ll never know what happened, never know how it was, in the end. I should have been at his side. If only I had—” he broke off, clutching the beads in a hand as he strained to make out the line where sea met night-dark sky. “Illen,” he begged, “please. I know you granted him life once those long years ago. Can’t you do it a second time? I would do anything. _Anything_.”

As soon as the words left his mouth he realized how they would sound. He bowed his head, rubbing the wetness from his eyes and trying to gather his scattered thoughts. “I would serve you, my Lady, in whatever way you required – but you know that I wouldn’t turn from you. Not even if it would bring him back,” he continued, voice rough. “I’ll not dishonor his memory by falling for the words of a tempter, should the demon see fit to visit me with such promises. Please, my Lady, I am unshakable in my devotion. Know that. I only meant to say—” he broke off, vision blurring once more. “I only meant to beg, I suppose, for something that can never be.”

He went quiet at that, summoning the will to continue his prayers of thanks to Illen, Fángon, and Ranael, knowing it vain and selfish to speak only of his troubles. He whispered out halting words of gratitude to Fángon for his long years of service, to Ranael for the brisk wind that bore them across the Gulf. Sliding the beads around with a hand he spoke once more to Illen, wishing her well on her nightly journey East, thanking her for taking care of those he loved during their loneliest hour.

“That’s all,” he murmured as he reached the end of his prayers, passing the three final beads to the end of the cord. “May my words reach your ears and my thoughts remain here, with the _Ship of the East_ , the _Ship of the Damned_ , and Ranael’s blue waters.”

As he touched his fingers to his brow, he heard the telltale creak of approaching footsteps. Glancing aft, he was unsurprised to learn that the light tread belonged to Félix. Tall though the man was, he had the capacity to move in near-silence around the deck when he so wished.

“You are praying,” he observed, voice hushed so as not to wake any who slept in the fo’c’sle below.

“I was. I’m through, now.”

“I am not interrupting?”

“No. Come to keep me company?” Arden asked.

“Hm.” Félix ducked beneath the staysail boom to take a seat on the other side of the capstan. “It is better to have two on bow watch at night. Four eyes are sharper than two.”

Arden knew this for the misdirection that it was, though it wouldn’t surprise him if it _had_ been Félix’s policy to always have at least two men up on the foredeck during overnight passages. He found that he didn’t mind Félix’s company and supposed that the man was aware of that; they got on well enough, and Félix didn’t see the need to pepper him with endless questions on his wellbeing.

It was odd to think that, over the space of a few months, Félix had become one of the men he counted as a friend and an ally.

“That is Ithaka?” Félix asked, nodding to the faintest glow on the horizon off of their starboard bow.

“You’ve sharp eyes,” Arden remarked. “That’d be Redrock you see.”

“That is Niko’s home.”

“It is, yeh. It’s a trading town, named for the color of its hills.”

“There are many woodworkers there?” Félix asked.

“I suppose Ithaka is known for craftsmanship, but I’m not sure I’d say woodworking is their primary export. Niko comes from a family of carpenters, though, so I’d wager he has his own opinions on the matter. It’s how we found him – we needed help repairing a leak in _Windjammer_ ’s hull some years back, and wound up liking him enough to take him on.”

“How does your King manage such diverse territories?” Félix wondered, looking back over his shoulder towards Kilcoran, which was no longer visible in the distance.

“With great effort, I suppose. All of our isles and provinces are represented in the Armathian court, though, which I reckon is half the battle won right there.”

“They do not fight?”

Arden shot him an amused glance over the capstan. “Our council isn’t quite as polite – nor as structured – as yours. It often falls to the Stewards to organize the mess.”

Félix was intrigued by his statement. “How so?”

“Coming in with a proposal is a bit like being thrown to a pack of wolves. One of the marks of my House is our ability to have our shouts heard over the din,” Arden replied, face falling at the reminder of both his title and his duty.

“Will you still sit with the council?”

“I don’t know,” he murmured, eyes seeking the spot on the horizon where Armathia’s lights would appear in another few days’ time.

“You will return to court, yes?”

“I have to. I have to bring word of what we know to the King.”

“You fear his reaction?”

“He will be grieved,” Arden said. “I am the bearer of bad news.”

“Is he the sort to be cross with the messenger?”

Arden shook his head. “No. Siath is a fair man. If I know him as I think I do, he’ll be concerned for my welfare and will do what he can to see me situated within the court.”

“What is your worry?” Félix asked.

“As I said, Siath is a fair man and, as far as I can tell, a good King. It pains me that I must bring him such news, and that I can only speak about Valory’s last moments in the vaguest of terms.” He turned, meeting Félix’s eyes.

“You know that he met his end in battle. You can tell his brother it was an honorable death, the death of a warrior.”

“Of that I have no doubt.” Arden fought to keep his voice steady. “The most I can say based upon your testimony is that he was fighting creatures of the deep in the end and that, at the very least, he didn’t fall into Dramorian hands.”

Félix cocked his head. “This is not what you would wish. Why? It is a quick end.”

Arden went quiet for a few long moments, trying to put the mad rush of thought and feeling that shook him from within into precise words. “Do you know—” he ran a hand through his hair. “Do you know much about why the Sea-Witch King wanted Valory?”

If Félix was startled by the non-sequitur, it didn’t show. “I assumed it was an order of Zathár.”

“You’re right in a sense; I’m sure it’s what Zathár would have wanted. The Witch King had his own agenda, however, for he and Val had already met many years earlier.”

“Revenge?” Félix prompted.

“In so many words. I know you’ll find the story too fantastic for your liking, but it’s the truth as I know it: during a great battle in the waters between Ithaka and Halen, Valory was bested by the Sea-Witch King. He remembered the night in patchy detail, up to the moment when he was dragged down to the deep by the foul creature.” Félix shuddered. “When he next awoke he was in the care of the priests on Ithaka.”

“That is a long journey.”

“The Gods made it on his behalf,” Arden said, surprised when Félix didn’t scoff at his words. “Illen gave him a second chance at life, and more besides. But I know that you understand when I say this: it is no small thing to look death in the eye and survive.”

“That is so,” Félix said, jaw tight.

“You and Valory had this thing in common, though you may not have known it to be so at the time. Can you swim, Félix?”

“Without difficulty, and for a great distance,” Félix insisted.

“And so could Val, though he didn’t like it very much – especially in places where he couldn’t touch bottom. It was a residual discomfort that he didn’t know I was aware of.”

“This is why he did not like the board.”

“Aside from the obvious, yes, I know he had no love lost for that particular method.” Arden let out a long sigh. “Do you see what I’m getting at?”

Félix gave a slow nod. “I think so. Yes.”

“Perhaps there’s no use in thinking on these terms, and perhaps the battle in Anaphe’s harbor didn’t transpire as I imagine, but when I think of him meeting his end in the water, creatures surrounding him, the one way he would fear to go – when I think of him feeling such terror in his last moments, it—” He swallowed hard. “Gods, it _kills_ me. So you see, when you ask why I dread playing the part of the messenger it’s not that I suspect the King will stoop to petty retribution. He will, however, ask me to recount what I believe transpired in the end, and this is what I will have to tell him.”

“Your Regent was not a coward,” Félix argued. “He would not have shrunk from his fate, not when he met it protecting the men and women on his vessel.”

“Bravery is not the absence of fear,” Arden murmured. “You know that.”

Félix looked away. “You are resistant to words that raise one’s mood.”

“I don’t take kindly to platitudes.”

Félix huffed out a snatch of Belenese under his breath. “I did not mean that as an insult. Your aim is true.”

It took Arden a moment to parse the mistranslation of the colloquialism. “In Oceana, we’d call a man like that a straight-shooter.”

“Yes,” Félix nodded. “So you know that I would not wish what happened to your Regent on anyone. Yet you also must find gladness in an honorable end, else you will find no gladness at all. Honor is no small thing to hold when a man goes to meet the river.”

Arden bowed his head. “I know that, but I’m afraid that gladness is beyond me right now.”

“Is that not what your holy books are meant to do at a time like this? To give you some gladness?” Félix asked. “Do you not believe that you will see him again when you go with your god to cross the sea?”

“You’ve been reading the Scriptures, I see,” Arden noted.

“Then is this time of parting not temporary?”

Arden pressed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “That’s what we believe, yes. If we defeat the demon, I know it to be so. Yet I still grieve his loss.”

“It seems that even the Oceanic do not have some easy short-cut to avoid such matters.”

“That we do not.”

“How long will you live?” Félix asked. At Arden’s furrowed brow, he continued, “Ehrin told me that your god-magic would give you many more years.”

Arden suspected that, based on Félix’s tone, Ehrin had told him much more than that. He couldn’t find it in him to grudge her for it; answering to Félix’s disbelief regarding the depth of his loyalty to a liege lord had grown wearisome of late. Better for him to know the truth, whatever he thought of it. “If I don’t meet my own end in battle then yes, I have many more years to my name. So many, indeed, that it seems unfathomable to me at times.” He leaned his forehead against the capstan. “Enchantments are called ‘blessings’ by our people, but that’s not an entirely accurate word. If I have the good fortune to live out all of the years I’ve been given, I will see everyone I love die ere I go East to meet them.” A bitter laugh forced its way out of his throat. “Perhaps I ought to get used to this.”

“ _The acquisition of power always has its price_ ,” Félix murmured.

“Yes,” Arden sighed.

They fell silent at that, staring at the empty water off _Windjammer_ ’s bow. Arden wrapped a hand around both pendant and talisman, rubbing them together between his fingers. What had the Queen told him about Valoren and Nathaniel – that Valoren had carried this very pendant around in his pocket for decades, waiting to join his friend and loved ones in the East? It seemed that he was now destined to do the same.

Behind them the ship’s bell rang, marking the hour. Félix stood.

“I must plot our course.”

“Did Callum drop that in your lap already?”

Félix gave a shrug. “It allows me to learn your waters.”

“Yeh, well. Listen Félix, thanks for—” he made a vague gesture at the spot on the foredeck where they had sat.

Félix inclined his head before disappearing aft towards the quarterdeck. Left alone at the bow once more, Arden turned his stare to the east, peering over the capstan in the direction of the path that Illen would take past the isles and towards the Undying Lands. “My Lady,” he murmured, “if you see him – if you’ve seen him already – tell him he remains in my thoughts. Tell him—” He tightened his fist, filigree edges of the pendant digging into his palm.

“Tell him I’m sorry for keeping him waiting.”

…

He woke up.

After a moment of listening to the rhythmic, familiar thumping coming from the other side of the wall, he realized that the sound of Ehrin beating dough had pulled him from his sleep. A glance at the port light confirmed that it was early evening. In the soft twilight everything looked grey. It was apt, he supposed, because everything felt grey as well.

His dreams had been full of light and color, an expanding bubble of joy taking residence behind his breastbone where Valory’s signature had once sat. He couldn’t remember what it was that he dreamt about but he did remember the feeling – a feeling that was thrown into sharp relief upon waking and remembering that _grey_ was his reality, now. He supposed that the dream had come from knowing that they would arrive in Armathia soon, but that gave him little comfort. Many awaited his return, he knew, but none of them were the one he sought.

Arden rolled over, eyes fixing upon the shelf beside his bunk and found Mizzen there, standing vigil over a haphazard collection of knick-knacks and manuscripts. Valory’s vambraces lay at her feet, their golden crescent moons sitting at eye level. He reached out to trace the swirls of the Regent’s crest with his fingertips, trying to play the exact timbre of Valory’s voice in his mind. He was only able to hear snatches of certain words: the way that he said ‘compelling,’ spreading the word out like molasses over toast; how he would reward a councilor for an obvious argument with a drawled, half-sarcastic ‘just so’; the disarming softness in his tone as he said ‘hello, Arden’—

But these were the barest phrases, only, and Arden couldn’t be sure whether or not his mind was making things up and filling in blanks out of desperation.

Only two months, and already memories had started to fade. Valory had once described his ability to recall text as a ‘perfect memory’, but Arden knew his mind to be anything but. He had tried to memorize Valory’s features the same way he would memorize a diagram in a book, but these images proved sterile and unsatisfying – nothing like having the living, breathing man in front of him.

Thinking in such terms still sent a dart of anticipatory longing through Arden’s chest. There was a part of him that hadn’t yet accepted the finality of all that had transpired in Anaphe, that couldn’t comprehend the _never_ in _never again_. He wondered if any man could. Perhaps men were simply ill-equipped to deal with the matter of their own mortality.

There was a part of him that hoped Siath had Seen what Arden would tell him, and had already prepared for news of such a loss. He knew it was cowardly, to hope to avoid bearing bad news to Valory’s brother, but it was a hope he held nevertheless. More than that he dreaded the hour when he would have to stand before his father and brother and recount the story of his failure to secure aid for Anaphe. His father had been right all along, it seemed: his plan was an ill-conceived one, and the consequences were devastating.

Arden wiped away the wetness pooling at the corners of his eyes. If he gave into his grief now – if he let himself cry – he knew he would never climb back out. He was still a Steward, still an officer, and still – as Félix had called him – a leader of men. He had to get up for watch. He had to bring _Windjammer_ safely to the capital. Afterwards he would have to sit in upon council, make plans, live and breathe at the King’s beck and call. He could not let himself succumb to the wretched, gnawing pain that sat like lead in his stomach.

He would continue the fight against Zathár in the name of the man he loved. He would do anything in his power to protect his people, and see peace reign in the East once more.

He would do Valory proud.

He shut his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

_The Season of Renewal  
Illár the 8; 2422 – The Battle of Anaphe_

When she was a little girl, her father had taken her down to the bay and taught her how to swim. It was something he didn’t do very well, and she had spotty memories of riding along on his shoulders as he walked around in shallows that were too deep for her to stand. She had loved spending time in the water, and had wheedled and begged her father to take her to the bay whenever he had a free afternoon. As she grew older, however, and come to learn the truth of her heritage and her father’s cause, she had begun to avoid spending time in Ranael’s domain. At the time she couldn’t understand why he would teach her a skill that was meant to bring her into communion with an Oceanic God. It seemed a betrayal of her desert roots, and she hadn’t been to the bay since.

Her father was no fool, however. Years later she realized that failing to participate in such a common pastime would have marked her as different amongst her peers. Edmund had mastered the art of hiding in plain sight through attention to such details; mastery that necessitated keeping the watchful eyes of gossipmongers away from their House. He had taught her how to sham and blend with those around her, and through the wearing of the years, she had forgotten about those sunny afternoons in the bay altogether—

Until the _Desert Wind_ foundered on Anaphe’s shoals.

.

Sybina had been ready for the jolt when it came, shaking _Desert Wind_ and throwing it for an unnatural roll. In the decks above and around her she could hear the panicked cries and shouts of those who could neither fight nor sail, huddled together in fear of what was to become of them. The viceroy’s voice had been loudest among them, entreating them to remain calm and vigilant, assuring them that they were on their way to safety.

The jolts kept coming, however, and were soon followed by the sound of battle raging on deck. Sybina strained, reaching for the cold press at the back of her thoughts, trying to learn what was happening on deck. She had to know when the time would come to do her Lord’s bidding. Though she had complete faith in the images he had shown her during her time imprisoned in the hold, she felt true fear bolt through her at the grinding, scraping shudder the ship gave as it crashed against the reef. Beside her the beams of the hull bent inward, splintering, water forcing its way through the cracks.

All went quiet in Sybina’s mind as the water rushed in. Her voice didn’t rise with the panicked wailing of the women above her. She didn’t struggle, didn’t fight against chains that she knew would not give. She shut her eyes, remaining still as water pooled around her ankles, waiting. She had faith. As afraid as she was, as helpless as she felt, she knew that her Lord wouldn’t let it end like this.

The whip-crack sound of hinges being ripped off of a hatch broke into her thoughts, and she opened her eyes to see one of the Regent’s men – the Empath – drop down into knee-deep water beside her. “Your hands,” he demanded, brandishing the key to her shackles.

She couldn’t peer into heads as he did, but his hurried movements and thin-pressed lips told her all she needed to know about the state of things on deck.

He made quick work of the shackle that bound her manacles to the hull, hauling her up by an arm with strength that belied his youthful appearance. “What’s happened?” she asked, unsurprised when she received no reply.

He pulled himself up through the hatchway first, extending a hand back behind him to help her through. They emerged into the crew mess where chaos reigned; councilors and their wives jostled and fought with one another to get out onto deck and away from the inexorable rise of seawater, yet Sybina could see that battle with creatures prevented the launch of the longboats that could bear them to safety.

The Empath left her side, then, taking the key to her still-bound hands with him. The viceroy stood only a few paces away, hands balled into fists, eyes red-rimmed with grief. Her attempts to quiet the panicked press towards the salon doors were largely unsuccessful, for which Sybina felt a brief moment of vindictive pleasure; the girl who had foiled Zathár’s plans through mad chance would be shown no mercy by the creatures of the deep.

Sybina turned her attention back to the deck where the Admiral and his men scuttled like startled land crabs, dodging this way and that in an attempt to avoid the thick, sinuous tentacles of a massive sea creature. Its limbs were as wide around as one of _Desert Wind_ ’s masts, and each swipe of one across the deck sent the crew sprawling. Over the side of the vessel Sybina could see its mantle, a shiny blue-black, rolled backwards to reveal the razor-sharp rows of beaks lining its maw. She shuddered at the sight of the thing, yet found herself thankful for its appearance all the same: here was a creature sent by her Lord to aid her escape.

She knew that Zathár’s control over such beasts only extended so far, however, and feared that she, too, would tempt the thing’s empty stomach if she ventured out onto the deck. Caught unsure of her next action she tugged at the length of chain that bound her hands. Could she run for the water? Would the creature know her, or would she become its prey?

“ _Silence!_ ”

The bellowed command made Sybina pull up short and whirl around. In the center of the salon stood the viceroy, stretched up onto her tiptoes, a thunderous set to her brow.

“My Lady—”

“I said _silence_ ,” she snapped. “Form ranks. Three lines, ten to a line. At my word – and not a moment before – you will proceed quickly and quietly to the longboat I indicate. Am I understood?”

“We should have women and children in the first line, and the men—” one councilor began.

“I say we start the line from here—”

“—but if we just—”

Fiona slammed an open palm against the bulkhead. “Enough.”

“My Lady—”

Fiona turned her wild-eyed stare Warrick’s way. “Do you want to live to see the morrow?”

“I only meant to suggest we should—”

“ _Do you_?” she demanded.

“I—yes, my Lady.”

“Then do as I say. We are not in the chamber. This is not a debate.”

Sybina knew that this was her last chance at escape. Stunned into meek cooperation, the others began to organize themselves at the viceroy’s direction. Before any could recover their wits long enough to check on her, Sybina slipped out onto deck, turning the corner and flattening herself against a deck box.

They had gone far since casting off their lines from the dock in harbor. Anaphe’s spires were still visible at a distance, but they had traveled some way down the coastline and low-lying hills now obscured the harbor. The bay they had entered was fringed by reef and peppered with small clusters of homes, appearing in miniature over the long expanse of water between _Desert Wind_ and the shore. A dart of worry stole through her. How would she make it such a distance with her hands bound and none at her side to aid her?

 _Desert Wind_ gave another shudder, an ominous groan coming from her lowest depths. Sybina knew that this was the creature’s doing. The ship was pinned between it and the reef wall, with no hope of escape so long as the thing drew breath. If the men on deck had made any inroads it didn’t show; the creature’s tentacles still slithered over the gunwales, plucking the sailors off and into the ocean one-by-one.

With her focus on the creature she paid little attention to her footing. Snagging her toes on an unexpected object she toppled, twisting to catch herself on hands and knees. With a start she realized that she had tripped over a body. She looked before she was able to stop herself, bile rising in her throat as she saw the unnatural angle of the dead navy man’s neck. She turned away, scrabbling on hands and knees over towards the far railing. From that angle she could see the water and the reef beyond.

An ear-splitting wail pierced the air. Sybina jumped, clutching at her breast, head whipping around to see what had come to pass. There in the center of the deck stood the Regent, caked in the black blood of the creature, standing triumphant over a severed tentacle. Chest heaving with exertion he wrenched his broadsword back, barely dodging the creature’s answering swipe.

He wasn’t so lucky the second time. One of the men called out a warning but Valory wasn’t quick enough; the tip of a tentacle snaked around his ankle and knocked him off of his feet. The creature lifted him up high, turning him this way and that as if inspecting him. Sybina held her breath, watching as his broadsword fell to the deck, as he bent double in an attempt to wrench his leg free of its grasp. Whatever the creature sought Valory must have been judged wanting, for with a single flick of its tentacle he was dashed back down to the deck where he lay, still.

Sybina’s heart leapt to her throat. The Dramorian traitor rushed towards his fallen commander, expletives pouring from his lips. She fought against a similar impulse. It didn’t matter that she had tried to carry out similar orders mere hours earlier; the thought of witnessing Valory’s death still made something squirm within her, forcing her to look away.

She balled her fists, focusing on thoughts of her Lord, willing herself to be strong. _Dauntless_. This was her chance. With all those on deck distracted by the prone form of the Regent, she would be able to slip away unnoticed. Steeling her resolve, Sybina looked over the rail into the water below. She bowed her head, pressing her palms together and whispering a brief prayer.

She jumped before she could lose her nerve. The water was bathwater-warm at the surface, and for a moment she flailed, inhaling a mouthful of water and gagging, before remembering to roll onto her back and float the way her father had once taught her. The manacles were ungainly but she spread her arms out as far as she was able, using them to stabilize her progress as she began to kick. A glance over her shoulder confirmed that she had a very long way to go before she would reach shore. If any had noticed her escape they were too occupied with the creature and the fall of the Regent to do aught about it.

Sybina was still swimming, still watching, when the shrinking form of the Lieutenant severed a second tentacle with his flashing twin blades. Arms and legs weary with exertion she found herself unable to feel either relief or upset when the creature retreated beneath the waves to nurse its wounds.

She watched as the hull of _Desert Wind_ finally cracked upon the reef, rending the bow and stern apart with a terrible clatter. The bow tipped, headsails dipping into the water and pulling it under as sailors jumped from the doomed foredeck, shouts of alarm carried towards her on the wind. The stern looked soon to follow, beginning its slide off of the crest of the reef towards the deep. With no small amount of dismay Sybina realized that the sailors were cutting the longboats off of their davits, letting them fall to the water where they had hope of being retrieved and manned.

What followed was chaos. The civilians who had been held in the salon all the while ran for their longboats, some going so far as to dive off the side to be away from the sinking stern. Men and women shouted, a young child wailed. Taking on water, the stern continued to sink until its deck was nearly level with the water’s surface. Arms aching, Sybina watched as Valory’s Northern officer bore his limp form over a shoulder, scrambling down into a boat with the Empath hot on his heels.

The stern rolled off the reef crest moments later, masts lying flat. It hovered just above the water for a long moment before Ranael claimed it at last. Sybina wondered how many had been dragged down with it.

For a brief and panicked moment she worried that the longboats would turn in her direction. She was assured when they headed north toward the Gulf, knowing that it was silly of her to worry. It would have been folly for them to make landfall within even distant sight of the city. She couldn’t be sure whether or not they saw her on the water, a tiny floating speck of white, struggling to keep her head and limbs afloat.

Perhaps they had, and had left her to drown.

.

Sybina still swam as the longboats rounded the corner and disappeared from sight. Having nothing to fix her eyes upon she tilted her head back, gasping for breath, wishing there was anything in the sky above her – a bird, a cloud, _anything_ – to take her mind from the fiery ache in her arms and legs. She knew in her heart of hearts that her Lord would not lay her to rest in a watery tomb, but that no longer served to calm her. Fear made her breath hitch, made a sob choke out of her throat, made it still harder to keep her head above water.

No. This wasn’t the end. She wouldn’t abide it.

Taking a long, deep breath Sybina calmed her movements, screwing her eyes shut and trying to recall those lazy afternoons in the bay in Armathia. The angle of the light was the same, and the water just as warm, and her father’s hands used to come up to support her just so—

If she concentrated she could almost feel the warmth of his palms upon her shoulder blades, could hear the teasing words of encouragement he would mutter as she struggled to move her hands and feet in time. She would tell him of this afternoon when she saw him again. What would he say? Would he be pleased by her resourcefulness? Would he know how grateful she was that such an offhand attempt at subterfuge had later saved her life?

Gasping out another breath, she imagined leading him through the halls of Anaphe, guiding him through her city with pride. He would be so glad for her, so filled with joy. He would tell her that she walked in her mother’s image. He would tell her that she had done him proud.

She imagined bringing him to the great hall then, to look upon their Lord for the first time as he sat on his rightful throne. They would kneel before him, and he would call them by name, and all of Anaphe would know them for their piety and bravery in the face of so many years of isolation.

These thoughts warmed her from the inside, lending her strength of mind and body. She pushed through the pain, the exhaustion, the fear. She swam until the sound of surf filled her ears, until she dropped her legs and her feet finally touched bottom.

The sun was approaching the horizon as she hauled herself up onto the beach on hands and knees, chain dragging behind her through the sand. The manacles had rubbed her wrists raw but she couldn’t feel a thing. She was too tired to stand, too parched to speak. She made it to the downy, blessedly warm sand above the tide line and collapsed, curled on her side. A pulse of cold satisfaction pressed at the back of her thoughts, and she let herself fall.

.

She awoke coughing and shivering in the cool pre-dawn light. Sand covered every conceivable inch of her body, crusting her still-damp nightgown, her hair, her fingernails. She sat, wiping sand from the side of her face, wincing. Every part of her body ached. She couldn’t imagine standing and beginning the long walk around the coastline to Anaphe’s harbor, eyes prickling with tears at the very thought. Just as the first hitch of a sob came, however, she forced herself to stop.

_No. You are not weak. Stop acting as though you are._

Her mouth tasted off fish. Her lungs tickled with the urge to cough. Her stomach rumbled. She ignored all of it, pushing herself to her feet with a long, low groan. Just up the beach lay a cluster of houses, the edge of one of the city’s outlying villages. Open doors and windows marked the dwellings abandoned from the recent evacuation. She knew it was unlikely that she would find anything to eat or drink within, but she hoped that she could at least find something to aid her cause.

As she limped from house-to-house, muscles tight, she remarked over how much the Oceanic had been able to carry upon their backs as they marched north towards Armathia. Though all of the dwellings were stripped of food, she did manage to dig up a handful of useful items. She had been glad at first to find a dress that looked her size, only to realize that it would be impossible to put it on with her wrists bound and chained. In the end all she took with her was a rusty machete and a long, linen shawl to protect her skin from the ravages of the rising sun.

Stomach rumbling once more she stood at the threshold of the southernmost cottage in the village, watching Anaphe’s spires catch the first rays of morning, glinting gold over the hilltops. She had a long walk ahead of her, and nothing would come from wasting time by scouring the waterfront houses. A plan forming in her mind, she decided to walk along the water towards Anaphe. Perhaps, if she was lucky, someone would see her approach when she rounded the far point. Clenching her jaw and fighting down another cough, she took her first steps towards the city.

.

By midmorning the sun was so strong she had to wrap the shawl around her nose and mouth to keep its burning rays away from the tender skin of her lips. Dizziness had replaced hunger and exhaustion some hours into her walk, and she cursed Arrar for the cloudless sky and the heat that beat down upon her back.

She knew she wouldn’t make it to the city if she couldn’t find something to drink. She had reached the mouth of another bay some time earlier, and combed a handful of houses in a waterfront hamlet in search of anything that could quench her parched, dry throat. There was nothing. Even the huts in the hamlet that were set up to catch rainwater had been tapped dry before the evacuation, and the rains hadn’t come since then.

Before the march on Anaphe, Sybina had loved going for walks in the city with her handmaids or escort of guardsmen. When she passed through the market, she was always sure to purchase a coconut to drink its cool water. She had seen the vendors in the market open the coconut in a variety of ways; with a knife to split it open, or with an awl to make drinking easier. She had grabbed the machete with this in mind, and scoured the beach for fallen coconuts. As it was with so many things, however, cracking open a coconut was far more difficult than it seemed – especially when one’s hands were bound. She managed to split one near the tiny hamlet after many long minutes of exertion, only to find that it was rotten inside. The sight and smell of the inedible flesh had drawn a sob of anger and frustration from her breast before she picked herself up and walked on, one hand wrapped around her mother’s locket.

There would be more coconuts, she reminded herself. She had to press on.

.

Her head spun by the time she took refuge from the midday heat. Picking her way into a shady mangrove thicket, Sybina tried to focus her eyes enough to look at the plants around her. So many of them bore fruit that she didn’t recognize and was not yet desperate enough to try. Leaning back against a gnarled tree she shut her eyes, another cough wracking her frame. Stars swum behind her eyelids.

She forced them open a crack, worried at how weak she had become. As she focused on the boughs that hung above her head, her eyes fixed on a cluster of small, green fruit. Heart soaring, she realized that she recognized these fruits from one of her forays into the Anaphean market. Arms shaking with exhaustion from carrying the weight of the chain between them, Sybina pulled herself to her feet and reached for the bough, grasping a branch and pulling until the fruit brushed against her fingertips. She picked the bunch, fingers trembling as she brought the first fruit to her lips.

She cracked the green skin with her teeth, spitting it out and biting into the prize beneath. The flesh of the fruit was slimy but surprisingly tangy and sweet, spread in a thin layer over a large, hard seed. A low noise of pleasure escaped her throat and she nibbled the seed dry before spitting it out, popping another fruit into her mouth immediately thereafter.

She worked her way through the small bunch of fruit, beginning to feel stronger as she finished off the last of them. Several more bunches hung on the branches above her head, and she worked with hands and machete to knock them down to the ground. Picking the fruits off of their stems, she stuffed the pockets of her salt-crusted, torn nightgown until they bulged. She finished off the rest while she waited for the sun to pass overhead and begin its journey to the western horizon. When morning turned to afternoon she stood, battling soreness and thirst and began to walk once more.

.

With a shout of frustration she slammed the machete into yet another coconut, letting out a squeak of surprise when it cracked open and revealed the ripe white flesh within. Her cry of triumph was swallowed by another round of hacking coughs. She spat into the sand next to the coconut, giving little consideration to the wheeze that plagued her as she cradled the shell within her hands. Putting her lips to where the shell had split she tilted it up over her head, sipping greedily at the liquid inside.

She wiped her mouth. The water inside the coconut was a relief to her parched lips and throat, a victory that lifted the fog from her mind and helped her focus on her goal. She could finally see the walls of Anaphe in all of their splendor; she was almost at the point where the city’s bay would open up before her.

Once she had sucked the last drop of water from the coconut she set to it with the machete once more, breaking it up into pieces and stuffing her pockets with whatever she could. The machete had served its purpose and so she left it behind, setting out down the beach once more, teeth scraping at sweet coconut flesh as she walked.

Joy swelled within her as she realized that she could feel the cold press of her Lord at the back of her thoughts, his presence returned now that she had marshalled the strength to abide it once more. With a grin and a burble of laughter she ignored her hurts, her fatigue, and the slow gnaw of hunger that not even the coconut could satisfy.

She was almost home.

.

It seemed a cruel trick when she finally came around the point into Anaphe’s bay. The city stood tall before her in all of its might, white walls and golden towers rising up to brush against the late afternoon sky. Her journey was not over, however: a rocky shore stood between her and the harbor district, and she realized that she had gravely underestimated the ease of traversing such a stretch. To her right jagged rock formations climbed up into a tall cliff face. To her left, waves crashed upon the low-lying rocks, creating tide pools and slippery patches of seaweed. There was only one path to the city, now, and it led up and over hundreds upon hundreds of boulders.

 _Dauntless_ , Sybina reminded herself, casting her last coconut shell into the sea and letting her fingers trail over her mother’s pendant. She squared her shoulders, skipping over a knee-high rock. She landed in the soft, wet sand on the other side. From there, all of the rocks that surrounded her were waist or chest height, and would continue to grow as she approached the city.

She avoided the sharp edges of a coral rock, planting her hands on a boulder and scrambling up its side, almost tripping over the long chain that hung between her wrists. Taking a breath she jumped from one boulder to the next, slipping as her foot connected with a patch of slimy green algae.

She found the feeling of being off-balance unsettling, enough so that she began to use her hands as well, picking her way across the boulders on all fours. She had to hug the tidal area as she did, knowing that the jagged rocks closer to the cliffs would be impossible for her to scale. This choice came at a price, however, for the wet rocks were slippery and covered in the razor-sharp shells of limpets which cut her hands and feet as she fought for purchase.

Handholds were difficult to grasp. Several times she had to backtrack and attempt to navigate a different path across the rocks when the chain between her wrists proved too short for her to reach the support she needed. Her cut feet stung as she stepped over salt-covered rocks. When they began to hurt too much to stand she began to crawl on hands and knees, though her knees, too, were soon rubbed raw. Still, she pressed on.

Reaching for yet another handhold she felt one of her legs give out from beneath her and she slipped into a crack, wrenching her angle between two boulders. A ragged noise escaped her throat and she thrashed, managing to loop the chain over the tip of the far boulder and pull herself free. She sat upon the rock, chest heaving with the effort of containing her sobs as she prodded at her sore ankle. She knew the injury for no more than a twist but it still _hurt_ , and she was so tired, so thirsty, so near and yet so far away from the harbor’s entrance—

She stared up at the fort that rose before her, eyes fixed on the wide, open-air hallways where none stood. Another cough shook her frame. She reached for one of the little green fruits, hoping that it might soothe her throat and bolster her strength.

Resting her chin upon her knees, she felt her Lord push at her thoughts. She shut her eyes, expecting a vision but finding none – she wasn’t strong enough to make the connection. It was disappointing and shameful to be so weak, yet still she cradled the cold press close, a balm to her hot, thirsty head.

“ _I will be home soon_ ,” she whispered to herself, voice rough and raspy with disuse. “ _I will be_ —” she coughed again. “ _I will be home_.”

.

The sun was setting as the rocks gave way to low-lying stone wall that flanked the quay. Sybina threw herself over it with little ceremony, unconcerned about the acquisition of new bruises. She had made it. She was here.

She stumbled with halting steps past the deep-harbor docks in the direction of the fort, towards the wide stone stairway down which the guardsmen had marched her not two days earlier. As she approached she saw a man appear at its head, flanked by attendants, all wearing quilted armor unlike anything she had ever before seen.

The man was Dramorian – she knew that upon first sight. He had the sharp, pale features of a true desert-dweller, and his hair was gathered high above his head in a handsome plait. A studded leather cowl protected his neck and shoulders, and his armor was embroidered and edged with patterns in the burnt-orange color of one of Dramor’s ruling houses.

 _Who wears orange_? She wondered, wracking her tired mind for that piece of trivia and coming up blank. She knew it wasn’t the sultan and as such figured that the man’s name didn’t matter; she was one of Zathár’s generals. She bowed to no man.

Sybina stopped at the bottom of the staircase, drawing herself up to her full height, pushing the linen shawl off of her head. Tilting her chin upward she met the man’s dark stare head-on. She gestured to the bottom of the stairs with a sweep of her hand, manacles clanking. Her meaning was clear; she would not summit so many stairs to stand before him. He and his men would come to stand before her.

His bearing was regal, lofty and self-assured as her husband’s had been, though perhaps not as tall. There was an intriguing familiarity about his features, but she was certain she had never seen him before. As he drew near she could see the hilts of a pair of twin blades peeking out from behind his back. He began to speak as he descended the final flight of stairs, words laced with the Indarian accent she knew and recognized from the few times she had heard Lester speak the language.

“ _State your name and allegiance_.”

Though the man’s posture was relaxed she could read the tension in his attendants, their eyes trained upon her, hands at their weapons. She drew herself up further. “ _I am Sybina daughter of Edmund, general of our Lord Zathár_.”

The man’s eyes fell to the symbol etched into her locket as he weighed her words. “ _You are the prophetess._ ”

“ _And you are_?”

His men seemed unsure whether they should kneel at her feet or take issue with the disrespect her question showed. Their commander only smiled, an uptick of his lips softening the severity of his expression. “ _I am Alvar son of Garo, general of the armies of the Lord of the desert_.”

His familiarity made sudden sense: this was the traitorous Lieutenant’s older brother. She held her hand out, unsure of how she should react. Before her stood a great man, yes, but she couldn’t shy away from her place or her calling when confronted with greatness; not when she was destined for the same.

He didn’t take her hand, nor did he present his own. Instead he pressed their palms together, leather of his vambraces and metal of his rings scratching against her tender skin. It was a greeting between two equals – an uncommon gesture. She felt pride flood her breast and pressed his palm in turn.

“ _I am heart-glad that you have finally arrived, my Lord._ ”

“ _I could say the same, my Lady_ ,” he replied, leveling her with an appraising stare. “ _A handful of your people remained behind to greet us when we took the city. They said that you and your right-hand man were dead or captured_.”

Sybina bowed her head. “ _I was ordered to kill the Regent. My plot was discovered, and Lord Samir killed. They took me to stand trial in Armathia, not knowing of my calling._ ”

“ _You escaped_.” The admiration in his tone was easy to hear. She looked up to meet his eyes once more.

“ _Our Lord sent the water-creatures after the Admiral’s vessel. I slipped away during the battle-chaos and swam to shore._ ”

“ _The vessel sank_?”

“ _Yes, but some made it into the small-boats. I suspect that the Regent is dead, killed by the water-creature—_ ” she made sure to keep her voice level, “ _but I worry-think that others survived_.”

“ _The child of Eramen was your husband, was he not_?”

She lifted her chin. “ _He is my husband no longer_.”

“ _Very well. We will see about sending more water-creatures after the small-boats. This will not be your concern. You have had a difficult journey. You must wish to rest, find nourishment, and say your prayers_.”

She smiled up at him. “ _You know my mind_.”

He extended his arm for her to take. “ _Obed is my brother. I understand the soul-body needs of those from whom our Lord draws his strength_.” He looked towards her just as they took their first step forward, catching her wince. “ _You are injured_.”

“ _It is a matter of the body, no more_ ,” she said, gritting her teeth as she took another step.

Alvar stopped her with a hand, gesturing towards his men. They knelt behind her, clasping hands together so she could be borne up the stairs to the fort upon their forearms. She stepped back, demurring. “ _That is not necessary. I have walked far; what are a few more steps_?”

“ _It would be a high-honor to carry you, my Lady_ ,” said one of Alvar’s men. The others echoed his statement.

She sat with a flush of pleasure, aching body cradled and supported as they lifted her up and began the slow ascent to the fort. She smiled, tilting her head back and shutting her eyes as the sun began to sink beneath the horizon, casting copper streaks across the cloudless sky above them.

“ _What brings you such savored-joy, my Lady_?” Alvar asked.

She turned her smile his way. “ _I have dreamt of this moment for so long – not as a prophetess does, but as a little girl does, thinking of the things one hopes to do and see in their lifetime. Anaphe is ours, and will be a proud-present to our Lord_.”

“ _Indeed_.”

“ _Do you think such thoughts childish fancy_?”

“ _No_ ,” he said, turning to press his palm to hers once more. “ _This is a heart-dream we have shared_.”

“ _I’m glad_.”

His lips pulled upward to match her own. “ _Welcome home, Lady Sybina_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sybina's eating gnips, in case you were wondering. They're delicious, even if they kind of look like eyeballs once you've peeled the skin off.
> 
> Typervox and Avanie, seriously. You guys are awesome.
> 
> That is all.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I had wanted to have this chapter posted about a week ago, but my GOD was it hard to write. Some days getting words on the page is about as easy as herding cats, and I have no idea why that is.
> 
> The gap won't be as long next time, pinky swear.

_The Season of Renewal  
Illán the 2; 2422_

Félix fought with intensity, with a playful mirth in his expression that always took Ehrin by surprise. They had been trading quips for months, so it wasn’t the humor that startled her, but the stark difference between the way he fought in practice and the way he fought when lives were on the line. Whether he tutored her in dueling or hand-to-hand it was clear that he took immense pleasure from the act of dismantling an opponent’s defense. Training, for him, was sport. Small wonder he had achieved mastery at his craft.

“ _You’re dropping your hands_ ,” he said, snaking past his intended strike point – her neck – to give a playful tug to her plait.

She smacked his hand away. “You’re having far too much fun right now.”

His grin sharpened. “ _Winning is meant to be fun, is it not_?”

“Gods, you are such an arse.”

She stepped back, putting her hands up once more, dodging Félix’s first swipe at her guard. One would think that his greater size would make him a slower opponent, but she had found that truism to be anything but: he moved like a Lyrian viper, and gave about as much quarter as one.

“If I were a betting man—” Jonah said from the helm.

“If you try to put money on the outcome of my lesson, you’ll not see another rum ration until your thirtieth birthday,” she warned.

“Have I ever told you how fetching you look in the early morning light?”

“Save it.”

The distraction cost her, of course, and Félix caught her fist with an infuriating smile, teeth and all. “ _You are not paying attention_.”

“Yeh, well, we can blame Jonah for that.”

“ _At what point in battle does everything come to a halt in order to aid your focus_?”

Ehrin sighed, pulling her hand back. “Fair enough. Again?”

This routine of spending early-morning watches sparring on the quarterdeck had been frowned upon when they first left the West, but that had changed bit-by-bit since they escaped the Ashaia. The lads were like overprotective brothers – always had been, even if she and Niko were of an age – and took their self-elected roles seriously. She knew they sought to save her from hurt and found it as touching as it was infuriating, but of late it seemed that Félix had won them over: first with his display of thankless loyalty in Anaphe, then in the following weeks at Arden’s side. Even Niko, salty as he’d been, had started bickering with Félix in a way that indicated some of the former Commodore’s transgressions had been forgiven, if not forgotten.

Now whenever the matter of spending time with Félix came up, the lads stayed out of her affairs in a pointed sort of way that suggested that they knew what was going on, and bets were being placed.

Of course she paid for letting her mind wander a second time. Félix grabbed her wrist and spun her, trapping arms against her torso. “I know,” she said, forestalling whatever he had planned on saying, “I’m not paying attention and now I’ve paid for it.”

“ _There is a saying in Belen_ ,” he rumbled, lips just above her ear. He pulled her wrists apart, crossing her arms at the elbows.

“Oi, cut it out—”

Switching back into Oceanic for Jonah’s benefit, he continued, “We say that when you give a victory to your opponent, you are the one who is besting yourself.” With his hands wrapped around her wrists, she was unable to break free no matter how she twisted and turned.

“I’ll tell you mate,” Jonah put in, “I used to do this to my little sister all the time—”

“Yeh, when you were still in the nursery? Gods, do little boys do this everywhere?” She craned her neck to regard him. “Did you pull little girls’ pigtails and put frogs in their bags as well?”

“Not frogs. They were small lizards. There is a difference.”

She laughed in spite of herself, not pulling away even when he loosened his grip on her wrists. “So you say.”

“Come,” he said, spinning her around so she was facing him. “Are we finished?”

“Nah, let’s end on a good one. I’ll keep my mind where it’s meant to be.”

In lieu of a reply he stepped back and raised his guard. They danced around one another for some long minutes, darting in to land mostly-blocked blows, ducking back out again to avoid the swipe of a foot or a fist. Jonah watched them as they circled around the quarterdeck, each attempting to use the terrain to their advantage.

As she crouched beneath a strike of his fist she saw her opportunity and, instead of trying to backpedal out of his reach, pounced. He always blocked such attacks but made positive noises at her for attempting to exploit a weakness in his guard, so she saw no need to pull the punch. As a result, both she and Félix were surprised when it landed.

Félix doubled over, winded, stumbling towards the binnacle which he clutched for support. She winced in sympathy; her fist had landed just below his breastbone – an ideal location if not for the fact that Félix wasn’t an actual adversary.

“Gods I’m sorry,” she said, reaching a tentative hand out for his shoulder. “I didn’t even think to pull it. Didn’t mean to hit you so hard.”

Félix slid down to sit on the deck with his back to the binnacle. Ehrin figured he had every right to be annoyed; she would have been were their roles reversed. She had just opened her mouth to work on another apology when his head tipped back with a breathless laugh, somehow forced from his throat even though the grimace of pain had not yet left his face.

“You learn fast, _my little warrior_. I should have blocked that.”

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” she worried.

“You took away my breath, no more.” Félix furrowed his brow at Jonah’s incredulous laugh. “Does that saying not translate?”

“Not the way you think it does,” Jonah grinned.

“I winded you,” Ehrin interrupted, cutting Jonah off before he could say any more. “You’re alright, though?”

“I have said it before – you throw a good punch.”

“I s’pose you’d know better than most.” She offered him a hand.

As she pulled Félix to his feet the companionway door swung open. Ehrin turned, expecting her father, only to see Arden walk out onto the quarterdeck. His arrival wiped the mirth from all of their faces. She straightened, feeling instantly guilty for horsing around within earshot of his cabin; he wouldn’t want to hear their play when he was so weighted down with grief.

“We didn’t wake you, did we?”

“I’ve been up reading for some time,” he said, offering up a tight smile that looked nothing like his real one.

“Anything good?”

He shook his head – a wordless reply – before turning to Jonah. “Need some relief on the helm?”

Jonah hopped down from the gear box without a word, knowing that Arden’s query masked the request hidden beneath. “Think I’ll pour me a cuppa,” he said. “Anyone else for some coffee? Hell, who am I kidding – it’s six bells, of course you all want coffee.” He disappeared down the companionway, whistling to himself.

Ehrin exchanged a shrug with Félix, sliding up to sit atop a deck box from which she could watch Arden out of the corner of an eye. He was silent at the helm, wearing the same drawn expression she had come to expect since Anaphe. It hurt to witness, but she understood. She’d seen how happy he had been after his return to Armathia and ascension to office within his House. It had suited him, the work of Steward. Now he was cast adrift once more. It was a fear and a pain she recognized, for she often thought about what it would be like to lose her own life’s work, should her father step down as Captain and she be unable to find a suitable replacement.

In a manner of speaking, Arden had lost a ship and a Captain. He had to navigate in a world where both life’s work and love had been stripped of him, and she wondered what leg that left him to stand upon.

Arden’s eyes were fixed upon Armathia, visible on the coastline in the early morning light. “Just a few hours,” he murmured. Ehrin was unsure whether he was talking to them or to himself.

“At this speed we will reach the harbor by late afternoon,” Félix agreed.

“And then what?” Ehrin asked before she could stop herself.

Arden let out a silent sigh, shoulders sagging. “I’ll go straight into an audience with the King.”

“Oh.”

“Were you expecting something else?”

“No, just—” she shrugged. “I don’t know, Jack.”

“I hope you don’t have other plans, because you’re coming with me.”

“What?”

He turned her way, a half-smile tilting his lips. “Both of you. I’m going to need Félix to give his account of all that happened in the West, and I worry that our inability to sign a treaty means that the council will see an opportunity to appease the public by trying him for piracy and crimes against Kilcoran.”

“How am I meant to help with that?” she asked, lip caught between her teeth.

“Testimony on his character, for every bit will count. Your father will come as well, of course, but remember – though you wear many hats, you’re our ship’s surgeon.”

It dawned on her that naval surgeons were commissioned officers, and that any who read her testimony would hear the words of an officer rather than the words of a woman. The thought that she would stand before the King to speak thrilled and terrified her at the same time. How could he take the words of a lowborn Kilcoranian girl as fact?

As if reading her thoughts, Arden said, “The King will hear you out. His—his brother trusted my judgment, and so will he. It’s my own brother you’re more likely to have trouble with.”

“Don’t I know it,” she muttered, remembering her last meeting with Lord Verne all too well. At that thought she pulled up short. “Wait. You said we’d pull into port in the late afternoon. I haven’t even started our next meal yet, and my only nice vest has a gravy stain on it—”

“I’ve stood before the council in worse, believe me.”

“But Jack, I can’t just go to meet the King and High Steward covered in _gravy_ ,” she insisted.

“If you need time, take it. I’m up and don’t plan on kipping before my watch; both of us don’t need to be on deck at the same time.”

She jumped from the deck box, darting to the helm to give him a sideways hug. “Thank you,” she said before turning and running for the companionway. She stopped with her hand on the latch. “Does your brother like lemon cakes?”

“Did you know that attempting to bribe a councilor is considered a crime in Armathia?”

“Not if the bribe’s good enough, it’s not.”

The half-smile returned. “Be that as it may, I don’t know my brother’s cake preferences. I can tell you, however, that there are two hungry sailors aboard this very vessel who have a great love of your lemon cakes.”

“Yeh, yeh,” she waved a hand. “You’re about as subtle as a hurricane. Alright, lads – I’ll see you next watch.”

.

Arden could hear the blood rushing in his ears, heart thrumming as though he was about to charge headlong into battle. It was all he could do to keep a forced smile frozen on his face as he waved and clasped hands with the men and women who filled the streets to welcome him home. He couldn’t help but think of the other times he had ridden up to the inner city in such a procession: twice a victor, twice in the grab of a common sailor, twice with Valory at his side. Today his vestments were finer – the unmistakable armament and colors of his office were precisely what had turned their ride through the city into something resembling a parade – but his return merited little celebration. Failure was not a burden he found easy to bear.

Félix rode beside him, clad in the deep red silks of a Lord of Belen. The Madestan penchant for opulence was reflected in the jeweled hilts of his weaponry, and his short-cropped hair decried his nationality to all he passed. From the occasional jeer Arden knew that some of the crowd recognized him, but didn’t dare do more than heckle him from afar when he rode tall beside a Steward.

The one bright spot of the journey was Ehrin’s gob-smacked amazement at the whole scene. It wasn’t until they were in the harbor that he realized she had never before mounted a horse, and watching her do so for the first time had momentarily supplanted his nerves with unadultered amusement. She rode behind her father, hands clutched around his waist, nerves forcing uncontrollable giggles from her lips each time the horse threw her off balance.

“This is mad,” she laughed, head snapping this way and that as they rode through the sixth level, wealthy merchants and nobleman bowing to them as they passed.

“You’re not alone in thinking so,” Arden admitted. It still seemed unbelievable, at times, that another man would take a knee before him. He wondered whether he would ever feel as though he had earned the gesture.

Another invective was thrown at Félix from the back of the thinning crowd. Félix bristled beside him, jaw clenching, eyes trained on the approaching inner city gates.

“Much has come to pass,” Arden murmured, bringing his mount alongside Félix’s. “They’ll learn.”

“It will not change that I have done wrong by them.”

“No, it won’t. I suspect the lot of them won’t be very forgiving, either. But you’ll see more respect if you earn a pardon from the King.”

“Hm.” Félix’s expression betrayed nothing of his thoughts.

Before them the inner city gates arched tall, offering a glimpse of the plaza, its gardens, and the impressive façade of the cathedral rising beyond. Arden watched the minute tells flickering across Félix’s face as he caught his first glimpse of the heart of Oceana’s capital. “Does it live up to your expectations?”

Félix didn’t take his eyes from the sight in front of him. “I did not expect there to be so much green in a tall city of stone.”

“Different from Belen.”

“Yes.”

They dismounted at the gates – Ehrin with no small amount of difficulty – and passed the reins of their horses to a liveried groomsman who cast a haughty glance at Ehrin’s scuffed and worn boots. She flushed, drawing herself up tall and folding her arms across her chest. Before Arden could open his mouth Félix had stepped up beside her, towering over the groomsman, needing no more than the set of his shoulders and curl of his upper lip to deliver his threat. The groomsman shrunk back, executing a deferential bow in their direction.

“Arse,” Ehrin muttered, straightening her worn-but-serviceable vest as she turned back Arden’s way.

“I could learn his name,” he offered.

She shook her head. “Not worth yer time.”

They fell quiet as Arden led them through the gates. He wished she had taken more offense to the groomsman’s attitude. Ehrin could rant for minutes at a time without taking a breath; her muttered monologue would have been a welcome distraction from the anxious dread that pooled within him at the sight of his brother waiting before the fountain, standing in the same spot he had been those long months before.

“Fair weather,” Verne said, the barest hint of a smile in his eyes as he stepped forward to clasp Arden’s arm. “I see you have a penchant for returning with surprises.”

“You know Captain Callum and Ehrin, of course. This is Félix son of Laszlo, brother of the Lord of Belen. Félix, my brother: Verne bar Miran, High Steward of Armathia.”

Verne eyed Félix’s smart bow with no small amount of suspicion. “You have a tremendous amount of explaining to do, brother.”

Arden’s stomach dropped. “I know.”

“To that end I’ve arranged for an audience with the King, but you mustn’t tarry. He has an important dinner engagement.” Verne began to walk, aiming for the most direct route towards the palace steps, not bothering to turn to see whether he was being followed.

“We were detained by the harbormaster, my Lord, else we’d not have gotten in so late,” Callum said.

“Things have been busy at the docks the past weeks, the _Rhane_ ’s arrival notwithstanding. Arden, I imagine you’ll want to speak with her Captain at some point.”

Arden hadn’t been aware that Verne knew of his friendship with Landon, but chalked it up to his brother’s penchant for hoarding potentially useful bits of information. “It’ll be good to hear what he and his lads have been up to.”

“Yeh, our boys will be glad enough to see his as well, I reckon,” Callum added. “All that said, my Lord, I apologize that _Windjammer_ ’s timing has inconvenienced you and the King.”

“Inconsequential. Be direct with your words and cut out the fawning that petitioners feel so inclined to include and I’ve no doubt that he will reach his engagement on time.”

Arden swallowed. “Verne—”

Verne took the short steps up to the palace entrance two at a time. “Brother, if you tell me all you have to say now I daresay you’ll only regret having to repeat yourself later.”

“The treaty fell through.”

“Do you _ever_ listen?” Verne sighed, turning off into a side corridor. “My Lord is in his sitting room.” He cast an appraising glance over his shoulder. “We’re going to need more chairs. Now that you have my curiosity piqued, answer me this: what is the Belenese Commodore doing here if we are still at war with the West?”

Félix spoke for himself. “I have renounced alliance with Zathár.” Beside him, Ehrin struggled to keep up with their quick pace.

“Am I to assume that you are the only one who has?”

“That is correct.”

Verne’s hand tucked into his pocket where Arden suspected he was fiddling with his prayer beads. “You bring happy news as always, brother.”

“And your love of sarcasm is as constant as the tides.”

Verne’s lips twitched as they turned the corner into the royal wing. “Be that as it may, it is good to have you home.”

Arden grunted out a reply as they passed the Regent’s chambers, screwing his eyes shut and struggling to center himself. He had a report to deliver. Now was not the time to think of Valory. It would be unseemly to deliver such news to Verne before speaking to Siath: even if by accident.

A familiar scent lingered in the air, one which imbued all he saw and heard with a deep sense of _home_. It was a bittersweet feeling, rife with memories that leapt at him unbidden, memories which were too raw to take out and examine. Here was the door to Valory’s rooms, and there the window that looked out into the courtyard, and to the right the archway that led to the garden with the ancient willow—

Anticipation rose within him and he supposed that his mind was tricking him once more, believing on some level that he would see Valory here, in this space so rife with memories of him. Although his heart beat hard with keen expectancy, he fought to remind himself: _this time no_.

Turning another corner, they came upon the door to the King’s suite. Verne announced their presence with a precise knock. Siath must have recognized the sound, for Verne had barely touched his knuckles to wood a second time when a muted “ _Come in, Verne_ ” came from within. Arden entered first, passing through the sitting area to the far end of the room where the King sat behind a large, handsome wooden desk.

Siath appeared ready for whatever dinner obligation he had planned; his dark complexion was offset by a white silken tunic, and an etched golden circlet sat in place of his crown. Arden felt bone-deep _hurt_ sluice through him at the sight of Siath’s face, the features an off-kilter echo of Valory’s own. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Félix’s raised brow, and knew that he saw the resemblance as well.

“I will leave the introductions to you, brother, as I must go in search of those chairs,” Verne said, backing out of the room and shutting the door behind him.

As the latch snicked into place, Arden turned to Siath with a calming breath and a steady bow. “My Lord, may I present: Callum bar Samuel, Captain of the _Windjammer_ ; Ehrin bar Callum, ship’s surgeon; and Félix son of Laszlo, brother of the Lord of Belen?”

Siath’s eyes swept over them, a shade of a smile lighting his features. “This already sounds like an interesting story, Lord Arden. Should I be glad you brought it to me now, rather than during council this morning?”

“I’m glad the tale will reach your ears first, my Lord.”

“Bad news then, as we feared.” Siath inclined his head, gesturing towards the three chairs set before his desk. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”

Félix volunteered to remain standing. Arden knew it was rude to leave a guest perched upon the sill of the half-open window, but found his ability to concentrate compromised by the situation at hand. Siath’s talent pressed against his sides, its similarity to Valory’s driving him to distraction. Indeed, Arden felt the phantom touch of Val’s enchantment take up residence just behind his breastbone, a cruel sort of tease. He didn’t know whether it was the place, the familiarity of Siath’s signature, or even some sort of residual energy that did it, but it served as a painful reminder of all that he had lost, and he found himself struggling to keep his composure.

“You seem uneasy, Lord Arden,” Siath observed. “Is there anything more you require? Coffee, perhaps?”

Arden shook his head. “My Lord,” he said, voice rough, “you were correct to call me the bearer of bad news. I’m afraid I—” he swallowed against the lump in his throat, the traitorous warmth in his breast. “I’m afraid I don’t know where to begin.”

“I know your errand was to the West, but I suppose you ought to begin with what you know of Anaphe,” Siath suggested.

Arden shut his eyes at the mention of the city, fighting against the churning mess inside his chest that left him feeling shaky and ill. Behind him he heard the door open once more. “Anaphe has fallen, my Lord, and now lives under Dramorian rule. Two flags fly above her – one I knew as the sultan’s standard, but the other hasn’t been seen since the beginning of this age. The city stands, but much of the surrounding area was burned; that much I saw with my own eyes.”

“Did you make it inside Anaphe’s walls?”

Arden leapt from his chair. Those words, spoken in an all-too-familiar baritone, came from several paces behind him. Siath’s brow furrowed as he choked on his reply, a garbled sound escaping from his throat. Some part of him registered Ehrin’s exclaimed “ _You’re alive!_ ” as he turned, eyes falling upon the sweaty, disheveled, but blissfully-whole form of Valory bar Adrianth.

“Val,” he whispered. It was all he could manage as every thought inside his head hove-to in a mad rush.

Valory pulled up short halfway through the sitting room. Only then did Arden noticed that one of his arms was cradled in a sling. “Did you see Anaphe and think—”

“They said there were no survivors.”

“ _Gods_ , Arden—”

Two strides and Arden was across the room, chest slamming into Valory’s, forcing him back a step. His hands reached up to cup Valory’s face and he _felt_ the discharge of energy coming from his fingertips as Valory’s enchantment amplified his own; the window at Félix’s side slammed open with the force of a gust of wind so strong it wiped Siath’s desk clean. Arden’s fingers trembled against the line of Valory’s jaw as he pulled him in, pressing their foreheads together.

He met Valory’s knife-sharp stare, cradling him close enough to share breath. “They said that two vessels escaped, and both foundered with all hands.” His voice sounded ragged to his own ears.

“There was a third, the Admiral’s vessel. We made it out of sight of the city before abandoning ship.”

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered. Valory’s injured hand splayed out across his ribcage.

“It was a near thing. I couldn’t hold the city past midday.”

“How could you have, without aid – aid that I failed to bring.”

Valory’s features hardened. “We knew what our odds were going in.”

“That changes little.” Arden’s words had grown thick with emotion. “I should have been there. When I heard you had fallen—”

“But I didn’t,” Valory cut him off, uninjured hand coming up to lie over the back of one of Arden’s. “I’m here, standing with you.”

Arden reeled, too overwhelmed to argue, eyes watering with the unwieldy combination of lingering grief and sudden joy. He slid their twined fingers down to rest atop Valory’s open collar, feeling the drumming of a still-beating heart against his fingertips. “Hello,” he murmured, spirit lifting at the sight of the wide smile that spread across Valory’s face at the word.

The sound of a throat being cleared drew their attention away from one another. Arden turned with a guilty start to see the King watching them with a gentle smile. He felt his face grow hot but couldn’t yet bear to take his hand off of Valory’s heart where a reassuring tempo still beat beneath his palm.

“I heard stories about you making a mess of the council chamber, Lord Arden, but I had thought them hyperbole before today.”

“God-magic,” Félix muttered from the window sill, arms folded across his chest.

“Commodore?” Valory furrowed his brow, only then noticing the room’s other occupants. “You didn’t ransom him?”

“It’s a long story.”

“I hope you enjoy telling it, for I have a feeling you’ll be doing a lot of that – to every councilor, repeatedly, in detail—”

Arden let out a strangled laugh; the sound was foreign to his ears, rusty with disuse. “And you’ll just feed me to the wolves then, will you?”

“I thought that’s what a Steward was for.”

“Not an hour back in Armathia, and you’re already brandishing me as a political shield.”

Valory’s smile broadened. “Does this surprise you?” He reached up to touch Arden’s cheek. “But I’m getting ahead of myself. Where are my manners? _Hello_ , Steward-mine. Welcome home.”

Arden’s laugh was real this time, joyous, as he pulled Valory into a second embrace, taking care to avoid his injured side. “I’m glad to be back – especially if this is how you’ve taken care of yourself in my absence. What have you done to your arm?” Another thought struck him. “My nieces?”

“All here,” Valory assured him.

“Thank the Gods.” Arden hesitated. “I heard that Malcolm—”

“Ah.” Valory’s face fell. “That’s one rumor that seems to have been accurate. You didn’t speak to your brother on the way here, before he left to remedy the dearth of chairs?”

“Not as such, no.”

“My Lord—” Ehrin hesitated, rising to stand as she addressed him, “what of Imran? And Little and Gabe?”

“Miss Ehrin,” he greeted, reaching out to clasp her forearm before turning to her father. “Captain. You’ll be happy to hear that all three are at the ring in the fort at this very moment, gloating over having wiped the floor with their one-armed commander earlier this afternoon.” He turned his attention to Félix next. “Commodore.”

“No longer,” Félix replied, remaining seated upon the windowsill.

Valory’s eyes strayed to the man’s weaponry, to his unbound hands. “I don’t pretend to know what came to pass on _Windjammer_ ’s voyage. I do know, however, that my Steward doesn’t make impulsive decisions in such weighty matters. I hope you don’t give him cause to regret his choice.”

Félix inclined his head by way of reply.

“Now that we have that bit of business squared away,” Siath said, “my Steward will be back any moment to have us do it all over again.” As if on cue, a knock sounded upon the door: one sharp rap followed by another.

“My Lord, did you just—” Ehrin broke off, staring at Siath with wide eyes.

“He knows Verne’s signature,” Arden reminded her.

“As he says, Miss Ehrin.” Siath turned towards Valory, an indulgent smile playing about his lips. “Let him in, would you? I keep telling him he needs not knock when he knows I’m at my desk. He won’t listen, of course. I suppose that’s a problem you don’t have.” Valory hastened to carry out his brother’s command.

“What problem, my Lord?” Verne asked, entering the room with a folding chair in each hand. “Shall I fetch one for you as well, my Lord Regent?”

“Not necessary,” Valory said as Verne caught sight of Siath’s scattered papers.

“What in Illen’s name happened in here?”

Valory’s lips curled into a smirk. “Your brother is happy to see me, Lord Verne.”

“I’ve seen Anaphe. I didn’t know what you meant when you said the _Rhane_ had arrived. I had already assumed the worst,” Arden clarified.

Verne took a moment to process Arden’s words. “It didn’t occur to me that I might know what you did not. Apologies.”

“No harm done,” Arden replied, hastening to help his brother gather the scattered papers, arranging them in haphazard piles across Siath’s desk.

“Wind is bending to your will today, I see,” Verne remarked, taking his seat at the corner of the desk.

Arden tried to cede his chair to Valory, who refused with a shake of his head. “You know I can’t sit still; not even with a broken arm.”

“And a set of cracked ribs,” Verne muttered.

“Those knitted together a few days past, or so the Master Healer told me.”

“Do you see what I’ve been listening to for the past week, Lord Arden?” Siath asked, hiding his smile behind a long-cold cup of coffee. “I regret that we must keep this short, but I do have an engagement for which I can’t be late.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Arden nodded. “If that’s the case, then I’d like to discuss our trip to Zaránd first.”

“Go on.”

He took a deep breath. “Val will have told you about the voyage to Anaphe, so I’ll not waste your time. Indeed, not much happened until we were a few days past the city of Belen—” He broke off as Ehrin nudged him with an elbow. “What?”

“The reef, Jack,” she whispered.

Arden nodded. “Right. Perhaps I’m getting ahead of myself.” He went on to describe the myriad course adjustments Félix had insisted upon while they traversed the shoals that lined the water west of Anaphe, adding, “He may have been a captive at the time, but without his eyes on the water, we would have run aground.”

“Is that so?” Verne raised a brow, quill hovering over his notes. He turned to Félix. “Why bother? The last I heard of you, you were still spitting upon your interrogators.”

Félix rolled his shoulders. “ _Windjammer_ sailed upon an incorrect course. I did not like the thought of wrecking her.”

“So you steered them to safety.”

“Yes.”

“As I said,” Arden continued. “Shortly afterward we were crossing the contested territory between Belen and Januz when we saw smoke on the horizon. We went ashore to investigate, taking Lord Félix along with us in case we were forced to barter our way to safety. The village we discovered had been razed, all of its inhabitants slain.”

“Burned, like Lannoch?” Valory asked.

“Parts,” Arden said. “Many met their ends in other ways.”

Félix’s hands balled into fists. “They were my people. Those we saw had been killed by knife. Their deaths were . . .” He looked over at Arden, switching to Belenese. “ _Their deaths were violent – brutal, even. I had never seen anything like it, not even after the bloodiest of battles_.”

Arden translated Félix’s words before continuing. “That’s when we saw the creatures.”

Behind them, Valory ceased his restless pacing. “What sort?”

“Locker-marked men, with empty eyes.”

Siath set down his mug, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. “That is what Valory saw in Anaphe.”

“As we feared,” Arden sighed. “The creatures were no friends of ours. Félix fought with us that day.”

“I’m not sure we would have made it out without his aid,” Ehrin put in.

“Is that why your hands are now unbound, Lord Félix?” Verne asked.

“I will not fight for such things,” Félix insisted. “ _They are an abomination – a disgusting, vile perversion of humanity. I was a fool to listen to the promises of a creature like Zathár. At the time it seemed a way to bring my people the hope and freedom they had long been denied, but when I saw what had become of that village, I finally understood what I had agreed to. I had abided Zathár’s unreasonable demands before, demands I didn’t agree with, but considered a means to an end. The suffering of my people, however, I would not allow._ ”

Arden translated for Siath and Verne’s sake before adding, “We had only just slain the last of the creatures when he laid his weapons at my feet and renounced his alliance with the demon. We proceeded to Zaránd with Lord Félix as our ally.”

Valory had begun pacing a slow circuit as Arden spoke. “Yet it seems that such an alliance wasn’t enough.”

“No,” Arden agreed, stifling the impulse to reach for him as he passed. “Our treaty offer was rejected, and we were pursued downriver by a number of their warships. I suspect we might not have made it to the safety of open ocean were it not for Lord Félix’s skill at the helm.”

“You put him at the helm during a conflict?” Valory asked.

Verne dropped his quill. “What was he doing on your vessel?”

“As he said – he refused to fight for Zathár. The tribal council was far from pleased by his decision. When that led him back to _Windjammer_ , we welcomed him. I had seen and heard him in council, and in my eyes, he had proven his trustworthiness. Miss Ehrin agreed with me.”

Ehrin gave a slow nod, fingers bunching in the fabric of her skirt. “He had a lot of opportunities to deal me a hurt, yeh? So when I found out that he had let all of those opportunities go, I started to figure that maybe he wasn’t such a bad sort. Since we left for Zaránd he hasn’t given us a reason not to trust him. I was one of the ones who thought that J—Lord Arden was right to give him a chance.”

“The others weren’t thrilled with my decision, but they let it stand,” Arden completed.

Verne looked over towards Callum. “Captain?”

Callum shrugged. “All but one of my crew are from either Kilcoran or Ithaka. It was no easy matter, and none of us have forgotten what happened last Season of Storms. I don’t like what he did, my Lords, but a lot has happened since then. I know he’s not about to double cross us.”

“What makes you so certain, Captain?”

“Because if that was his plan, I reckon he’d have done so already. Félix was the one we put ashore in Anaphe. He could have sold us out to buy his way back into his brother’s good graces, but he didn’t.”

“Did you make that call, Captain?” Verne asked.

“No, sir.”

“Arden—”

“Yes, I’m aware how ridiculous that decision sounds to those who weren’t present for it,” Arden interrupted. “I was right, though, wasn’t I? Lord Félix swore to fight our enemy, and followed through on that promise.”

“I know you have an intuitive gift, brother. I can only hope that you are acting upon that, and not upon the old adage regarding the friendship one might find in the enemy of an enemy.”

“Both apply, do they not?”

“I see.” Siath’s expression grew serious. “Based on the direction your testimony has taken, Lord Arden, I assume that you are trying to win my favor on Lord Félix’s behalf.”

“He shouldn’t be endangered by my failure to negotiate a treaty with Madesta,” Arden said. “I seek a pardon for him, my Lord.”

“On what grounds?”

“The services that he has rendered since we left Anaphe for Zaránd.”

Siath let his eyes rest on Félix for a long moment. Félix held his stare. “Do they outweigh the harm that was done to our people in the isles?”

“What of the good he may do for our cause in the future?” Arden challenged.

“When the council learns that he is within our city walls – a matter which will take a pair of hours at most – they will not be interested in mercy. This is a man who took orders from Zathár.”

“What incentive do our enemies have to turn away from the demon if we hang them as soon as they lay down their arms?” Arden demanded.

“My brother makes a good point,” Verne admitted.

“If we grant him amnesty as a show of good faith and word spreads, perhaps others will follow,” Arden continued.

Siath turned to Félix. “You have foresworn your people?”

“No. I have turned from Zathár. I remain a man of Madesta.”

“That gives me little assurance of your intentions towards Oceana.”

Félix’s features hardened. “I will fight against Zathár and his allies, but I will not swear fealty to a foreign king.”

“Then how, pray tell, will you aid our cause? I know that you are a sailor, but I cannot put you aboard one of our navy vessels without an oath of service,” Siath replied.

“You have many mercenary vessels. You will use them in this fight, will you not?”

“ _Windjammer_ herself is one such vessel, my Lord,” Callum added. Ehrin turned to regard her father, eyes wide.

“Are you volunteering to keep Lord Félix on board _Windjammer_ , Captain?” Siath asked.

Callum rubbed at the back of his neck. “To be honest, my Lord, we’ve been sailing shorthanded for some time. He’s a fine sailor and I wouldn’t mind having him on my side in a fight, if you take my meaning.”

“This man attacked your homeland, Callum,” Valory said, leaning against his brother’s desk. “The last I heard, you wanted him off of your ship as soon as possible.”

“A lot can change in a season, my Lord. This lad here . . . well. He’ll do.”

“Miss Ehrin?” There was an intense set to Valory’s brow; she squirmed under his scrutiny.

“My Lord.” She hesitated. “Perhaps when you’re well again, you should go to the ring with Félix. Now hear me out,” she said, raising a hand as he opened his mouth to question her. “He can fight like I’ve never seen before, bound hands no object. You remember how I’d get down in the hold right next to him to bring him his meals? Well, he knew I carried his keys. D’you see what I’m saying?”

Valory turned towards Félix, who remained perched upon the windowsill. “Explain.”

“ _Only filth would attack an unarmed woman or child. When you captured me you took my vessel, my men, and my mission from me – but you did not take my honor. I told Zathár I would not touch her and I stayed true to my vow, even when he ordered me to break it._ ”

“Miss Ehrin means to tell me that you are a man of your word,” Valory surmised.

Félix raised his chin. “ _Sometimes words are all that a man has_.”

Siath hesitated, listening to Arden’s translation. “I suppose you are suggesting that I, too, take Lord Félix at his word.”

“What is an oath of fealty if not words?” Arden asked.

Siath pressed his fingers to his temples. “Yes, I see your point. Verne, your thoughts?”

“I would prefer to read my brother’s full report before making any recommendations, my Lord.”

“Very well. Valory?”

Valory sized Félix up once more. “I’m inclined to trust my Steward’s judgment.”

“But?”

“I can see that you’re hesitating. Do you hope to seek a vision on the matter? If it’s time you need, you should take it,” Valory completed.

“Yes,” Siath murmured, “I like the sound of that.”

“My Lord, we will have to depart in ten minutes’ time,” Verne warned him.

“All the more reason to continue my deliberations later. Do I have anything pressing scheduled for tomorrow morning, Verne?”

Verne shuffled through his papers, pulling out the King’s schedule and sliding it across the desk. “I have taken the liberty of changing your tea with the Lyrian representative to a luncheon in order to accommodate another meeting with our brothers.”

“Excellent, thank you. Lord Félix, I will have a decision by ten bells tomorrow morning. Lord Arden, Val, come prepared – I suspect that we’re going to have to redraft our plans for the mission to Saria for a third time.”

“Saria?” Arden asked.

“Val, please brief your Steward at some point before the morrow,” Siath continued.

Aware of Arden’s confusion, Valory returned to his side and bent, a hand landing on the back of his chair as lips hovered just above his ear. “My brother is proposing an alliance through marriage.”

It felt natural, this whispered aside – a habit they had fallen into during their first weeks together aboard _Windjammer_. In the rush of divulged information that had followed Valory’s entrance, the past two weeks had been wiped clean from Arden’s memory. Something about Valory’s words or proximity, however, blindsided him. He froze, for a moment unable to feel anything but the bittersweet joy of regaining what he thought he had forever lost.

“Lord Arden?” Siath startled him out of his reverie.

“Apologies.” He cleared his throat. “Saria. I’ll be sure to prepare myself before tomorrow’s meeting as directed. This new alliance is to be marital as well as martial?”

Valory rolled his eyes at Arden’s word choice. “It is.”

“If I may ask—”

“Who’s getting married? That would be me, Lord Arden,” Siath replied, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“And may you have better luck in matrimony than I,” Valory muttered.

Arden turned to regard him. “Did—” he hesitated, choosing his words with care. “Did Lady Sybina make it safely back to Armathia?”

A shadow passed across Valory’s face. “She went down with the _Desert Wind_ when it sank, or so I’m told – I’m afraid I wasn’t conscious at the time.”

“Oh.”

His shock and confusion must have shown, for Verne took pity on him. “Lord Valory learned the identity of Conrad’s murderer. He was poisoned by Samir, Lady Sybina’s cousin.”

“Unfortunately I made this discovery far too late to prevent Samir from earning her ear,” Valory said.

“Samir was a Dramorian loyalist?” Arden asked, trying to wrap his head around all he had heard. “Gods, I saw him the last time I was in the city – do you remember? And to think, mere days later—” he trailed off, looking back at Valory. “Your wife?”

“Found company amongst the worshippers of Zathár. On the eve of battle, and under the direction of Samir and the demon, she attempted to poison me.”

“ _What_?” Arden heard his words echoed by Callum and Ehrin.

“Your niece foiled the plot by pure chance,” he said, giving a quick summary of that evening’s events. “Sybina was chained in the hold of _Desert Wind_ when we were set upon by creatures. I don’t remember much past that—” Valory gestured at his broken arm—“but from what I hear, it was chaos. Fiona suspects she attempted an escape, but I can’t imagine she made the long swim to shore with her hands bound.”

Arden nodded, a storm of conflicting emotions battering his tired mind. “I see. Well, perhaps not – I _don’t_ see, for I’d never have imagined such a thing coming to pass. You’ll have to forgive me: I’m too tired to offer much by way of analysis.”

“No need,” Valory murmured as Verne broke in,

“My Lord, we shouldn’t tarry; the High Priest is always prompt.”

Everyone but Félix shot to their feet as Siath stood. “Very well. I regret to cut this short, Lord Arden.”

“Not at all, my Lord. Thank you for granting me an audience on such short notice.”

Siath’s lips pulled up at the corners. “I wouldn’t dream of doing otherwise.”

They exchanged pleasantries all around before entering the corridor and going their separate ways. Verne branched off first, escorting _Windjammer_ ’s crew to the city gates.

“Shall I give the High Priest your sincere apologies for missing dinner?” Siath asked, turning to regard his brother once Verne was out of earshot.

“If you would.”

“I assume you’re going to take your meal in the tower suite. I can have Verne arrange for that.”

“Perhaps you might have him direct the maid to leave it in my sitting room?” Valory suggested, glancing Arden’s way.

Siath let out a huff of amusement. “And just how do you propose I explain that request to my Steward?”

“Tell him I’ll be in the bath – Illen knows I need one.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Siath agreed, earning a shoulder-bump from Valory for his cheek. “On that note, I must be off. Welcome home, Lord Arden; I will see you tomorrow morning.”

“My Lord.”

Siath departed in the direction of one of the palace’s many dining halls, leaving them in the midst of a busy corridor. Arden returned the polite welcome of a passing councilor without looking to see who it was, eyes trained instead on Valory, stifling the impulse to reach out and touch him in such a public setting.

They turned by mutual agreement, calling absentminded greetings to those they encountered as they hurried in the direction of the tower suite. Valory led them on a short-cut through a series of small courtyards, but Arden had no eyes for the sweetflower blossoms, nor the mosaic-tile altars that littered Armathia’s outdoor spaces.

The silence between them was strained, full of words they couldn’t speak until they were far away from prying ears and eyes. When they reached the tower Arden took the steps at a punishing pace, impatience speeding his stride until his breath came in labored gasps, legs aflame with exertion. Valory kept up without complaint past the first two landings, but held out an arm as they approached the third, stopping them mid-step.

“What?” Arden asked, tensing under Valory’s amused stare.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you move so fast.” Valory turned to face him, Northern accent giving way to the affected vowels of formal Armathian dialect. “What _ever_ gives you such cause to hurry, Steward-mine?”

It was a transparent attempt at drawing a smile from him, and it worked as well as it always had. Arden felt a burble of laughter escape his throat as he turned and caught Valory around the waist, an uncommon wetness in his eyes.

“That’s better than the look you were wearing before,” Valory said, thumb following the curve of Arden’s smile.

He walked Valory backwards until his shoulders met the stone wall of the tower, pausing opposite a long arrowslit. The warm glow of the dying sunset painted a strip of golden light across his face, over a collarbone, and down his chest.

“Look at you,” Arden murmured, tracing the line of light over the bridge of Valory’s nose.

“Come here.”

He went, pressing Valory into rough, whitewashed stone as their lips met. The light from the arrowslit fell upon him as well, striking a red glow behind his eyelids as he relearned the yielding firmness of Valory’s kiss: the scrape of teeth against his lower lip, the rasp of a bearded cheek, the twist and press of his tongue.

Valory pulled back, lips ghosting over Arden’s as he whispered, “I’ve been waiting months for this.” He drew Arden in for another lingering kiss, then, fingers of his good hand knotting in Arden’s hair.

A door slammed shut on a landing somewhere along the stairwell. Arden sprang backward, wincing as a strand of hair that had wound around Valory’s signet ring neglected to come with him. The slow tread of footsteps echoed off of stone, though it was difficult to tell whether or not they were drawing nearer or farther away. Valory glanced upward at the stairs that rose before them, favoring Arden with a devious smirk.

If Valory thought that surprise would give him a head start, he didn’t realize how well his Steward knew him. They broke into a sprint once more, racing up the spiral steps to the tower suite like a pair of boys a fraction of their age.

“You’d think you’d give quarter to a man with an injury—”

Arden laughed, speeding up and flying through the door to Valory’s rooms several paces ahead. He made it halfway into the sitting room before his feet slowed to a half, all the details of the familiar space rushing his senses as that bone-deep feeling of _home_ engulfed him once more. Behind him, the door shut.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat. “Here we are.”

Valory stepped up behind him, good arm snaking around his waist, chin hooking over his shoulder. Lips whispered against the silvered scars that wrapped around the side of his neck and he shut his eyes, listening to the musical calls of shorebirds, the rustle of the wind through Valory’s windows, the distant sound of waves breaking along the shore.

After a quiet moment he turned, hands coming up to frame Valory’s face. They drew together, noses bumping, lips brushing in what was, at first, no more than a meeting of open mouths. He reveled in the throb of Valory’s pulse against the heels of his hands, in the warm pressure of Valory’s signature behind his breastbone. His fingertips trailed up a beard-roughened jawline before delving into Valory’s hair, loosing his queue and stroking through snarled strands still sweat-soaked from the ring. “You really do need a bath,” he murmured, smile broadening at Valory’s eye roll.

“Shall I call for one to be drawn, then?”

The obvious bluff was accompanied by a purposeful roll of hips; Arden wasn’t the only one who had been half-hard since they were in the hallway.

“Perhaps it can wait,” he conceded, pressing Valory back through the sitting room and into his bedchamber, shutting the door behind them with a foot.

No sooner had the latch clicked than he captured Valory’s lips once more, meeting him in a fierce kiss, hands roving over hips and ribs and shoulders without pause. Valory crowded into him in a bid to eliminate the space between them, one hand tucking into the back of Arden’s waistband, clutching him as though he feared Arden would disappear if he let go.

“I’m at a disadvantage,” he said, wounded hand tugging ineffectively at the silk that bunched over Arden’s chest. He pulled back, pressing one, two more brief kisses to Arden’s lips before twisting around to reach for the knot of his sling.

“Can it come off?”

“The sling can. The Master Healer gave me another week with it braced.”

Arden walked them backwards until Valory’s calves touched the bedframe. He pressed in as Valory sat, coming to stand in the vee of his thighs, leaving a trail of openmouthed kisses along the line of his neck were stubble met skin. The knot that held the sling together gave after a few tugs. Arden pulled it away with gentle hands, setting it upon the nightstand and guiding Valory’s forearm down to rest upon his thigh.

“It’s damn hot,” Valory groused, unwrapping the bandages that encased his forearm, damp with sweat and stained with dirt from the ring.

As the last of the linen fell away, Arden’s eyes fixed upon the silver-stamped crescent moon of his own sigil. His vambrace cradled Valory’s forearm, stiff leather supporting and healing his hurt. Something about that hit Arden like a knife between the ribs.

When he looked back up to meet Valory’s eyes, he found himself the recipient of an unblinking stare. “It’s the best thing I have,” Valory said, laying his wounded arm between them.

Arden had no words. He leaned in, hands shaking, fingers almost unable to work the pearlescent buttons running down the front of Valory’s simple shirt. He had to feel skin. He parted the loose linen, thumbs spreading over Valory’s collarbones before running down, raking through the hair splashed across his sternum and skating over his ribs in a tentative caress.

“I’ve ached for you,” Valory whispered.

Arden looked up from his hands to meet eyes gone dark with arousal. Evidence of such pressed at the tight-stretched placket of Valory’s trousers, yet Arden hesitated, unsure how to proceed. The thought of causing Valory further injury was unbearable. His fears must have been writ across his face, for Valory sprung the buckle of his own belt in invitation, pulling his weaponry from his waist and shoving it to the floor with a thud.

“My ribs are healed, and while my arm can’t yet bear weight, the brace will protect it. You don’t have to take such care.”

Arden’s fingers bumped over each rib in turn, twelve down, twelve back up again. “You’re sure.”

“Very.” Valory’s heels dug into the backs of his calves by way of reply, forcing him to stumble another step closer.

Arden needed no more encouragement. His hands delved down the back of Valory’s trousers to pull him up and in for a heated kiss, pressing their hips flush together in a sinuous slide. He captured each of Valory’s little gasps with his lips, breathed bitten-off curses into Valory’s mouth.

Dizzy on touch after so long without, Arden ignored the first frantic tugs at his tunic, unable to pull away even for the promise of more bare skin. When another tug was accompanied by the telltale sound of a ripping seam, Arden gave in and attempted to wrestle out of his livery.

“Get it off _now_ ,” Valory demanded, confusing the process by trying to help Arden wrangle his belt buckle. They managed to get his weaponry off and his trousers down to his knees, though Arden tripped over his boots in a graceless attempt at kicking them off. Valory’s head reared back with unrepentant laughter as Arden freed himself, wobbling until a hand shot out to steady him.

“Like an overeager lad, didn’t you once say?” he asked as he left a pile of boots and garments on the floor.

Valory fisted a hand in Arden’s tunic, drawing him back into the cradle of his thighs. “I’ll not fault you for being eager.”

Arden yanked the slipknot binding Valory’s trousers and smallclothes, pulling them down in a single motion. He went to push Valory’s shirt from his shoulders next – desperate to see all of him – when his eyes fell upon the marks that the Battle of Anaphe had left upon his skin.

“What have you done?” he asked, a hand coming up to trace at a newly-healed wound on Valory’s shoulder before being waylaid by the long, jagged scar running down the left hand side of his ribcage. The scar was fresh – tight – a mottled, thick line spanning the width of several fingers as it wound from armpit to waist. The sight of it only served to remind him how very close he had come to losing the man who lay before him.

Arden felt hot, feverish. He opened his mouth but was unable to force sound out. Pressing Val backward, he walked him on hands and knees until his head connected with the pillows, mouthing down his neck and across his chest to the raised edge of the scar. He trailed kiss after openmouthed kiss down its length, gooseflesh rising beneath his lips as he tried to take away the pain it must have caused, the fright it must have given—

Valory’s good hand landed upon his jaw and he ceased his ministrations, realizing as he did that he was shaking, arms supporting his weight only through sheer force of will.

“You—” he began, but any other words he had refused to come.

“Arden.”

Valory pulled at the hem of his tunic, forgotten in the fog that had rushed his head as soon as he set eyes upon Valory’s skin. Arden shucked it with little ceremony, not wanting to break contact, crawling back up Valory’s body until they were face-to-face, hand splayed across the marred flesh that ran the length of his ribcage.

“How close?” he whispered.

Valory shut his eyes. “Little was there. We had many injured, but—”

“How. Close.”

“I don’t know. I was never awake for long. Imran took command. He had the Admiral direct the oarsmen towards the shipping channel. They tell me our rations ran low, but I have no memory of it.” He drew Arden close. “The _Rhane_ found us two days after the battle. I woke up on board.”

Arden touched his brow. “Thank the Gods for Captain Landon.”

“Indeed.” Valory’s good hand came up to cup his cheek. “I’m alright, now.”

“You almost died.” He sounded as though he had swallowed a mouthful of sand.

“I didn’t.”

Arden let out a string of expletives, letting Valory take his weight as he lined them up from shoulder to hip to knee. He still shook, tremors running through his arms and legs as he fought to contain the sucking ache inside his chest at how close he had come to never having this again.

Valory’s good arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him in tight. “I’ve missed you,” he murmured, head falling back against the pillows as Arden kissed the shell of his ear, his neck, his collarbone. “I’ll admit to giving no small amount of thought to this, right here – when I would see you again—”

Arden’s lips slid from Valory’s neck as he pulled back to look him in the eye. “You thought about this, did you? In the dark watches of the night—” His hips rolled against Valory’s, heat flaring within him once more at the sensation, at Valory’s words, at the answering tremor in Valory’s thighs.

Valory let out a low groan. “I hadn’t thought I’d have a broken arm to contend with, but – yes. I imagined meeting you again in Anaphe, aboard _Windjammer—_ of late, in this very room—”

“I can’t believe you’re here,” Arden said, words muffled against the side of Valory’s neck as he ground against him once more. “Tell me—tell me what you’ve imagined.”

“I’d rather you told me what you need in order to reassure yourself that I am, indeed, here—”

Arden’s breath caught. “I would have you. If your arm—well. If you can.”

Valory kissed him, openmouthed, body arching upwards at his words. It was a reply in its own right. Arden felt his heart jump in his chest and reached out blindly, pawing at the top drawer of Valory’s bedside table. His fingers scrabbled over a handful of objects until he located the earthenware jar he sought. He snapped it up, triumphant, turning his full attention back to where it belonged.

He lost himself in Valory, then – in the taste of salt in the hollows of his collarbones, in the heat of his mouth, in the slip slick of salve, in the smooth raised edges of the scar sweeping the length of his ribcage. He watched Valory with the thirst of a man parched, watched him with an unblinking avidity he had rarely before felt. He took in every arch of his lover’s back, every sound that fell from his lips, every scratch of fingernails against the bedclothes.

When Valory urged him on, parting his knees and pulling at Arden’s hips, Arden let himself fall, let himself become a part of another, joined them with a slow, shaky grind that had filthy strings of words falling from Valory’s lips.

For a time that’s all there was – Valory’s head thrown back against the pillows, body moving in time with Arden’s rolls like a ship yielding to each crest of a wave. Arden’s arms burned with the effort of keeping upright, holding him just above Valory’s upturned face, pleasure unfurling low in his belly as he pressed in and in. Forehead to forehead, it made no difference he was too close to focus on Valory’s features; he could taste Valory’s sighs of pleasure, could feel every hitch of breath and bitten-off noise.

He had almost lost this.

“Gods,” he whispered, wetness stinging his eyes as he buried his face in Valory’s neck once more. His hips stuttered as Valory’s heels pressed into his back, urging him forward.

Valory’s good hand came up to tangle in his hair, to pull him in for a messy kiss. “Touch me.” The words vibrated against Arden’s lips. Arden felt Valory draw up tight as he shifted to comply, sliding a hand down Valory’s chest, feeling the muscles shudder and bunch beneath his fingertips. He hesitated when he reached Valory’s hip, rubbing circles into skin he had once marked with lips and teeth and tongue—‘ _a second talisman, a mark from my Steward—‘_

“Don’t make me beg,” Valory said, voice strained, wrecked as Arden had ever heard him.

“Never.” Arden lipped a kiss to his cheekbone, to the side of his nose, to the corner of his mouth. He took Valory in hand, in a fist slick with salve, fingers tightening as he rocked into him, as they chased their crest together.

He felt a hand against the side of his face and looked up from where their bodies joined to see Valory staring at him, lips parted, unblinking. “I’m here,” he whispered.

Arden made a choked noise and knew that he was growing erratic, knew that his control was starting to slip beyond his grasp, scrabbled to get it back, struggled to hold on and wait for Valory to have his pleasure, for that moment to come when he’d start to tremble and gasp and make _that_ noise—

”Please, Val—I can’t—” _wait any longer—_

Valory’s body drew tight, a wordless noise falling from his lips, fingers of his good hand digging into Arden’s neck to clutch him close—

Arden followed him, eyes screwed shut, pleasure slamming into the base of his spine so hard his arm gave out and he landed curled around Valory’s newly-healed body.

They shuddered together, holding tight.

.

“What was it?”

They had been dozing, caught in the soft warmth of twined limbs and fine bedding. Valory visibly struggled to rouse himself enough to answer the question. “Was what?”

“The creature.”

Arden felt Valory’s fingers – which had been toying with sorrel strands in a long-familiar gesture – still mid-turn. “I don’t know. It must have been half the size of _Windjammer_.”

He pressed his palm against the scar on Valory’s side. “How?”

“The last thing I remember is the sight of the tentacles coming over the cap rail. They were enormous – some as thick around as one of _Desert Wind_ ’s masts. I went for one, and I suppose it struck me, for I remember little else. Imran told me that it lifted me up by an ankle and inspected me before tossing me back to the deck.”

“You landed wrong.”

“No doubt. My side was ripped up on splintered decking. I’d have thought that the creature would use a fall like that to subdue prey, but it left me be in favor of another sailor. I suppose I didn’t look good enough to eat.”

“No taste, those sea creatures,” Arden murmured. He felt Valory smile against his shoulder.

“Perhaps not.”

He expected some sort of answering quip in reply, and when he realized that none was forthcoming, lifted his head to see what the matter was. He found Valory’s stare fixed upon him, a serious set to his brow.

“Alright?” Arden asked.

Valory’s hand strayed from Arden’s hair to brush across his cheek. “When we had no word of you in Anaphe, I feared the worst. I couldn’t let myself believe it.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “I don’t know what I would have done had someone brought confirmation that you had passed – even if it was only rumor. I dreaded each morning out of fear that it would come. I’m sorry you had to endure such a thing.”

Arden pulled him in tight. “It’s over now, isn’t it? And try as you may to play it off as a lesser hurt, the waiting can’t have been easy on you. I don’t know how you made it through without going mad.”

“Some would argue that I did go mad.” He wrapped another strand of hair around a finger. Arden watched his eyes dip sideways to admire the color, a smile stealing across his face.

“The bear made an appearance in council?”

“You’ve no idea. Though knowing what I do now of your journey West, perhaps it’s for the best that I had no news. The thought of you fighting off the creatures, escaping Zaránd, infiltrating Anaphe—” he broke off. “You know what the thought of putting you in harm’s way does to me.”

“We’re going to have more of that.”

“We will, but there isn’t a way on Ranael’s blue waters I’ll let you out of my sight a second time.”

Arden circled a thumb and forefinger around the leather wrapping Valory’s injured arm. “Not on anyone’s order – man, God, or otherwise,” he agreed. A thought struck him as his fingers rubbed over the relief of the pattern stamped into the vambrace. He tensed, craning his neck to regard Valory once more. “Little saw, didn’t he?”

Valory rolled his arm, displaying the silvered crest of Arden’s office. “He did. Imran and Gabe also know I wear your sigil, but otherwise he kept it quiet. I suppose now is as good a time as any to pass along his message.”

“Do I want to hear it?”

“He told me that I owe you thanks.’”

Arden’s brow creased. “For?”

“When the creature cast me down to the deck, my arm broke my fall. Your vambrace took much of the impact. Little says I might have lost it, otherwise.”

“Gods.” Arden shut his eyes, burying his face in the crook between Valory’s neck and shoulder.

“Shh. I’m here now, aren’t I?”

 “And I’m glad of it.” Arden supposed that Valory was clued into his state of mind by the way he clutched at him, for his next words were light, teasing.

“Most of my parts are even in working order.”

“True enough,” Arden replied, forcing levity into his tone, “a claim which stood up to rigorous testing a half-hour past.”

Valory grinned, dropping a kiss in his hair. “Didn’t you once tell me that men of science valued the replicability of their results?”

“Are you suggesting we run the experiment a second time?”

Valory rolled Arden over onto his back, supporting his weight with his good arm. “I wouldn’t want my Steward to grow slack in his academics. Now, if I can be of service in that area—”

“In that case,” Arden said, arms wrapping around Valory’s waist, “I have some suggestions regarding where you might put your hands.”

“Do you.” Valory smirked.

“For research, of course.”

…

Arden started awake with a gasp, throwing his arms out in front of him to ward off the oncoming attack. Opening his eyes did him little good; the room was shrouded in the kind of true-dark that only came in the dead of night. Disoriented, he flinched against the hand that came up to grip at his shoulder. He almost elbowed Valory in the neck before realizing where he was – and who lay beside him.

Collapsing back on the bed he rolled, finding Valory’s outstretched arm by feel as much as by sight. He tried to remember what his dream was about, but it was a nonsensical collage of images as all dreams were: something about Lady Sybina, shipboard battles, locker-marked eyes. In his dream, she had come for Valory with a knife.

“You said it was poison, didn’t you?” he whispered, snaking an arm around Valory’s waist.

To Valory’s credit, he understood Arden’s question without further prompting. “A small vial. No way of knowing what kind. Why?”

Arden shut his eyes. The dream was product of paranoia, then, rather than his minor Prophetic talent. He had figured as much. “No reason.”

Valory let out a tuneless hum before burrowing back into the pillow. He was asleep within moments. Arden, on the other hand, wasn’t so fortunate. Mind jumpstarted by the dream, he found his thoughts spiraling in a number of different directions.

He wondered whether Félix had made it down to the docks without incident. He hoped that he hadn’t left Callum too shorthanded by remaining in the city. He thought about Siath’s decision to deliver his verdict on Félix’s amnesty in the morning (if it wasn’t morning already) and wondered whether he had sought a vision to guide him.

It was difficult to keep his thoughts away from Anaphe and the subsequent sail to Armathia – memories that were still too raw to examine. He struggled to assimilate all that had passed after learning of Valory’s supposed death with all that he knew now, with the warm embrace in which he was wrapped, with the tickle of Valory’s breath against his shoulder. Moving with care so as not to wake him, Arden slid a hand around to rest over the left side of Valory’s chest. He counted heartbeats, feeling his mind still and the tension drain from his shoulders as he occupied himself with this simple, satisfying task. _One, two, three . . ._

_. . . two-hundred and seventy-eight . . ._

_. . . six-hundred and forty three . . ._

Yet for all of the meditative calm he felt – somewhat akin to counting sheep as a child – he still found himself unable to sleep. He pulled his hand from Valory’s chest with a reluctant sigh, extracting himself from their loose embrace and swinging his legs over the side of the bed.

The sitting room of the tower suite boasted one lit candle by which Arden could see the table set with their long-cold meal. His stomach gave an insistent grumble at the sight. Closer inspection showed that the plates were heaped with curried rice noodles. His love for curries transcended the desire to eat the dish warm, and so he had shoveled down most of the noodles before it struck him that this would be precisely when a maid would come in to collect the plates – when he was hunched over a table in Valory’s sitting room, stark naked, eating cold curry by the light of a single candle.

Chuckling around a final mouthful of noodles he made for his original destination – the bookshelves on the far wall – in search of some entertainment. Valory paid little mind to how his books were organized, but Arden had long since memorized the layout of the shelves. He was able to locate a novel with little difficulty and brought it back to bed with him. The candles on the nightstand beside him flared to life as he arranged himself, pleased to see that he had grabbed one of the mindless adventure novels leftover in the tower suite from Valory’s youth.

He had only just begun reading when Valory stirred, shimmying over to nuzzle at his shoulder. A moment later, a wary blue eye popped open, regarding Arden beneath a furrowed brow. “You smell like curry.”

“Do you want to know what you smell like?”

“I suppose I should have had that bath I was on about earlier.” He twined their fingers together, knuckles dark as one of Little’s bitter teas against Arden’s freckled pallor.

“How’s the arm?”

“Sore, but well enough.” Valory tucked his head between Arden’s neck and shoulder, rolling to wedge a knee between his thighs.

Arden smiled, thinking it was a bit like having an overgrown limpet stuck to his side. “Would you prefer I put out the light?”

“Not if you read aloud. What did you grab?”

“Some novel about a young firestarter who fought during the border conflict of 2364. The synopsis suggests that he will be knighted for bravery upon his return to Armathia and marry a nobleman’s daughter.”

“You just spoiled the ending.”

Arden nudged him with an elbow. “As if you didn’t already know it?”

“I was ten in 2364.” At Arden’s incredulous stare, he continued, “Very well, yes – I do remember how that one ends. Siath gave it to me on Illen’s Day when I was thirteen. You’re not far off: the firestarter does get knighted, but he winds up marrying a Princess.”

“Your fictional sister?”

Valory gave a pained sigh. “I suppose, though Siath and I didn’t get so much as a mention.”

Arden grinned. “Probably for the best.” He balanced the book on a raised knee, fluffing his pillow before wrapping an arm around Valory’s shoulders. “Shall we?”

Arden felt contentment settle within his breast as he began the tale. Valory’s acerbic commentary grew fuzzier and less biting with time, sleep coloring his words by the time the young firestarter was deployed to the Border. He nodded off just after the second battle scene, lulled by Arden’s voice and the fingers that massaged idly at his temple. Once his breath evened out Arden continued to read on in silence until his own eyelids began to grow heavy. Although he resolved to read just one more chapter, he succumbed halfway through, falling asleep with the book still propped up against his knee.

…

Arden woke with the sun, dreams of triumphant desert battles scattering as he opened his eyes. Valory had rolled onto his back during the night and stretched, taking up most of the mattress as was his wont. He lay with an arm thrown over his eyes and a leg pinning down one of Arden’s calves, quiet snores accompanied by the birdsong that drifted in through the open window.

Removing the book from its perch face-down on his chest, Arden pushed himself up onto his elbows to glance about the room. The candles were still lit, lending a warm glow to the pre-dawn light. Valory would wake soon – years of habit had tuned his internal clock with precision. For now, however, Arden had time to look his fill.

It was jarring, to be thrown from never-again to here-at-my-side. He was grateful, of course, and thrilled beyond measure, but he supposed that he would remain in a state of partial shock until he had acclimated to the pattern of life in Armathia once more. A part of him, however, didn’t want to forget the hollow ache of the past weeks. He wanted – needed – to ensure that he would never take what he had for granted. That he knew the true value of all that he was fighting for.

Val was his once more.

Arden rolled over, pressing a kiss to the scar that bisected Valory’s right brow. Careful to avoid Valory’s injured arm, he kissed a shoulder, a collarbone, the hollow of his throat. Valory made a low noise, shifting in his sleep. Arden kissed the skin over Valory’s heart before trailing smiling lips down his breastbone to where his ribcage parted.

A sharp intake of breath and he knew that Valory had woken. His suspicion was confirmed when fingers threaded through his hair. He kissed lower still, following the line of coarse dark hair that traveled from Valory’s chest between the muscles of his abdomen, past his navel, and down. “Good morning,” he murmured against the sensitive skin just inside a hipbone.

From the pillow, Valory regarded him with sleep-hooded eyes that did nothing to disguise his interest in that morning’s proceedings. “It is so far,” he rumbled, voice rough with sleep.

Arden’s smile turned wicked as his lips moved inward from Valory’s hipbone.

“It’s about to get a lot better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this chapter was brought to you by Founder's Breakfast Stout and a handful of cloyingly emotional pop songs that I listened to on repeat to try to give myself the writing feels. I've read through this chapter so many times I can't tell whether it has any emotional impact whatsoever, so feedback would be appreciated in that regard.
> 
> Protip: when they say 'write drunk edit sober', they don't tell you how awful line editing is when you have a hangover -- especially if you're at all like me and lose the ability to punctuate after two beers. You live, you learn.
> 
> 4/3/15: SPEAKING of editing, I gave this chapter another run-through for some continuity things, clarifications, and of course, the horrific set of paragraphs in which it was actually impossible to tell who was taking off what items of clothing. I know I keep saying that I'm leaving off major edits for now, but I couldn't help myself. Thanks for the feedback on this chapter, folks.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to start with this note:
> 
> I added another note to my little black book of future edits as I was writing this chapter, specifically regarding telepathy. Most of what I've written about -- powerful Empaths peeking into the thoughts of others either accidentally or on purpose -- has referred to immediate, conscious thought (surface thoughts). I haven't written much about deeper thought, memories, beliefs, etc., and I've recently (while writing the next chapter) realized what an omission that was. I'm going to go back and do some minor edits to clarify, but I imagine that getting into that deeper layer of thought would be very, very difficult (maybe even painful for the subject), and that there would be some strict codes of conduct forbidding one from doing so (since that would be pretty messed up). So, yeah, I need to do some more thinking about this. Mostly because Fiona and Gabe need to have serious talent boundaries for plot reasons.
> 
> ..
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has commented with suggestions, edits, and encouragement so far -- I really appreciate it! [[Avanie I hope your week gets better. I feel you. The lit review for my thesis is due in two weeks and I keep thinking, what if I just submitted 400,000 words of unedited fiction instead? Who needs to graduate, amirite?]]

_The Season of Renewal  
Illán the 3; 2422_

“I thought the Master Healer told you to stop drinking so much coffee,” Persephone said, turning a critical eye on the large carafe on the breakfast table.

“The Master Healer doesn’t have ten consecutive hours of state obligations to attend to,” Siath replied around a mouthful of eggs.

“Darling, you’re a King of men. Your mother shouldn’t have to remind you not to speak with your mouth full.” She reached up to neaten the collar of his tunic before seating herself. If she noticed her son’s eye roll, she didn’t comment. “Are you getting enough sleep?”

From any other mother, this sort of question might be considered standard fare. From one Seer to another, however, it took on different meaning. “I’ve been having more visions than rest, if that’s what you mean,” Siath replied, washing the eggs down with a defiant gulp of coffee.

“I slipped back and forth between dreams and visions as well.”

“Anything interesting?”

She speared a sausage with her fork. “Battle, visions of creatures. I Saw Lady Sybina again.”

“Are you still upset with yourself for not Seeing her betrayal?”

“I should have known that the sense of foreboding I experienced whenever I Saw her was more than guilt over supporting your father’s decision to have Valory marry.”

“Mother, you can’t expect to have answers that Illen herself doesn’t possess.”

“I know that, darling, but now that I find myself equally stymied when seeking visions of Lester, his attendants, Edmund, Anaphe—” she sighed, putting down her fork without taking a bit. “I’m growing frustrated.”

“Illen knows little enough of the future that all she can show us is conjecture,” Siath agreed.

“It sounds as though your visions were equally cryptic.”

Siath tapped his fork against the edge of his plate. “Not cryptic, just disobedient. I attempted a vision of Lord Félix and received almost everything but.” At his mother’s patient silence, he elaborated, “There were a few brief snatches of things that have already come to pass. I saw him on the board as a young man, then again at _Windjammer_ ’s helm beside Lord Arden. I caught the briefest image of him raising arms against _Windjammer_ ’s surgeon, as well.”

“You think he’ll turn on them?”

“I think they were sparring. There was little in the vision to tell me such, but—”

“You must trust your instincts.”

“He has no intention of harming her. It was something she said yesterday, during her audience. She has no enchantment, but I’m inclined to believe her.”

Persephone smiled. “One doesn’t always need an enchantment to know the hearts of others. What else?”

“I was standing aboard a ship in my last vision. I thought I Saw Lord Félix out of the corner of an eye and turned, but in the chaos of battle I lost him. I turned, and _she_ was there.”

“The white-haired woman?”

“Yes. So many months since I Saw her last, and she appeared only to distract me from the answers I sought.”

Persephone began to cut the sausage into tiny pieces. “Be that as it may, recurring visions are no small matter. She appears to you for a reason, though you might not yet know what it is.”

“Isn’t it futile to feel so invested in the welfare of someone I don’t know – someone who may not even exist?”

“I Saw you in my visions long before you were born. I loved you even then, even when I knew that Sight was no guarantee that I would ever know you. I wouldn’t call a single moment of time spent thinking about you a waste.”

Siath poured himself another cup of coffee, ignoring his mother’s pointed stare. “When did you first See me?”

“The day my father wrote from Armathia to tell me that I was to marry the Crown Prince. I was sixteen.” She pushed the tiny pieces of sausage around her plate. “I hadn’t yet received the letter, but when it came I was the only member of the household who wasn’t surprised.”

“Sixteen.”

“Older than you were, when you first Saw the white-haired woman.”

He stared into his coffee for a long moment, considering his mother’s words. “I think I know who she is.”

Her hand shot out to grip his forearm, eyes boring into his. “You mustn’t do that, love. Assumptions can be devastating at a time like this.”

Siath scrubbed a hand down his face. “I know. I should be content with the window my enchantment gives me into the lives of others without asking Illen for more.”

“More?” She arched a brow. “There is no higher honor than Seeing another for who and what they truly are.”

These were words his mother often shared; he suspected they were a mantra of sorts. For all that he heard them, however, he was unsure whether he agreed. “Is it selfish of me to wish to trade such knowledge for the ability to always know the right course of action? I can’t be the only one; it seems to be what others expect of me.”

“I know you’re speaking on the grand scale – of great battles, of Zathár’s return, of the myriad diplomatic decisions you’ll make this very day. But don’t forget the many small decisions your visions have helped you make. Don’t forget that even a small decision can change the course of one of these great battles.”

Siath sighed. “Yes, Mother.”

“You think my words mere platitudes.”

“It seems indulgent, to count my visions of the white-haired woman as important as my visions of war, or famine—”

“Siath.” The use of his name earned his immediate attention. “How would things be between you and your brother if you had never indulged in visions of him, and relied instead on the testimony and pejoratives of others to judge his choices?”

“As father did, you mean?”

She dropped her eyes back to her plate. “As I told you once, your father was no monster. He was only a man who saw from a different perspective; one which forced him to look at your brother through the clouded lens of tradition and stricture.”

“And you think that my ability to See my brother as he is—”

“I think that your Sight informs diplomatic decisions more than you know,” she completed.

Siath gave a slow nod, trying to follow his mother’s line of logic. “A ripple effect, you mean.”

“Last night you told me that Valory based his decision regarding Lord Félix’s asylum on his trust of his Steward’s judgment. How do you think your father would have viewed such trust, had he known of the connection between Lord Arden and your brother?”

Siath opened and shut his mouth. “Ah.”

“Your visions are so much a part of you that you fail to see their true impact. You can’t imagine a world without them. If you try, however, I suspect you’ll come to see that the most mundane visions often have the most value.”

Her words resonated with something he had been taught long ago, when his enchantment first began to develop. “Master Lawrence once told me that Sight wasn’t a discipline of answers but a discipline of questions. I never did grasp his point.”

“Most people would believe that visions are the medium through which Illen gives us answers, but that’s a bit simplistic, is it not? When has Illen ever given you a direct answer – your trivial questions on board the _Ship of the East_ notwithstanding?”

“She gives us the tools to answer our own questions,” Siath realized.

Persephone patted him on the arm. “And there you are – a revelation before you’ve even had your third coffee of the morning.”

“But what questions do my visions of the white-haired woman answer?”

“I suspect that will reveal itself when the time comes.”

Siath shook his head. “So many years practicing my talent, and yet I often feel as though I’ve hardly scratched the surface of the wisdom you’ve acquired.”

“Wisdom is like a good stew, darling. It takes some time to cook. Yet no number of years will be enough for a man to learn all there is to know – and certainly not on his own.” Her gaze sharpened. “You and your brother both tend to forget that you cannot do what you do without the aid of others.”

“And yet the burden rests on my shoulders.”

“Let the competent men who work beneath you take some of that strain,” she implored. “That’s what they’re there for, love. Else you’ll see no end of ten and twelve hour days, and then what shape will you be in when the demon comes knocking?”

He paused with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth, an argument freezing on his tongue. “I’ll try, mother, but there are some obligations that will remain mine alone.”

“ _Some_ ,” she stressed. “You are a new King, yes – and still learning – but you don’t need to have your hand in every pot just to prove that you can carry the weight of your title.”

He tapped at the carafe. “Maybe not, but I suspect I’ll find it difficult to pull away from this one.”

“The coffee pot. Very clever, darling. Do refrain from repeating that jest to your brother; I hate listening to you two squabble.”

Siath downed the rest of his mug by way of reply.

…

Arden accepted the cup of coffee – prepared the way he liked best – with a grateful smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you last night. I was caught up reviewing Sarian diplomatic proposals with Valory until quite late.”

Fiona, who had taken a sip from her own cup, choked at his words. “Uncle,” she said between coughs, “I should warn you that my talent—”

“Is waxing?” Arden offered with a wince. “I suppose there’s no point in insisting that I was annotating the Regent’s notes, then, is there?”

“Not unless there’s a definition of ‘annotating notes’ that I’ve not yet heard,” Fiona agreed, flushing to the roots of her hair.

Arden cleared his throat. “Can you do more than detect falsehood?”

“It comes and goes, but I can see surface thoughts—” she broke off, tilting her head as she regarded him. He felt the uncanny tickle that let him know he was being read and tried to push her out. “Don’t worry,” she hastened to assure him, “the Regent has showed me far more, both on purpose and by accident.”

“Has he?”

“Don’t be upset with him,” she pled, reaching out to lay a hand over his. “I could see part but not all of what you were to one another, and he helped me better understand. It was . . . humbling to be given such a glimpse into his thoughts.”

“Thoughts about me,” he guessed, trying to swallow his discomfort.

“You mean very much to him. I’m glad he showed me what he did. There’s . . . well. There’s no arguing with that kind of regard.”

Arden felt relief wash through him at her words. He and Valory had agreed that speaking to Fiona on such matters could prove too great of a risk. He was glad – and somewhat embarrassed – to have underestimated her.

“Don’t be,” she said. “Before he showed me what he did, I couldn’t – well. As I said, I didn’t understand.”

“You’re answering my surface thoughts,” he murmured.

“Sorry,” she made a face. “Gabriel told me that was rude; I try not to, but when my talent is waxing I struggle to tell the difference between strongly-worded thoughts and speech.”

“How are the headaches?”

“Not ideal,” she said, a wry twist of her lips informing him that she had one at that very moment. “Gabriel assures me that it’ll all be worth it.”

“I’m glad you found a mentor in him.” He paused. “What other news? How are you and your sisters settling into Armathia?”

“Grandfather and Uncle Verne have been very kind to us, taking us in as they have. I’ve been spending much time with Lady Agatha and Alistair.”

“Your first cousin. He’s something, isn’t he?”

“Chubby cheeks and all,” she agreed. “Alicia spends most of her time in one of the palace courtyards. She makes her Armathian debut later this week. Alma is too young to join her, of course, but her studies are keeping her busy.”

“Mathematics,” Arden said, realizing as he did that she had neglected to mention news of her own debut, and suspected he knew why that was.

“She’s studying with the priests at the cathedral, and spends the rest of her time with one of her new friends – Lord Alec’s daughter, I believe.”

“And you? Will you be debuting with your sister?”

Her eyes slid sideways. “I am hoping to avoid a match.”

“Malcolm.”

“Yes,” she whispered, a glassy sheen to her eyes. Arden put an arm around her, drawing her into his shoulder. She held tight, shaking with the effort of holding back her tears.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Do you know what happened?” she asked, voice raw. “I never saw the battle, and the Regent said he was still standing when we ran for the docks—”

“I don’t—“

“Oh Gods,” she choked, and he realized that she had pulled what he knew from his head.

He forced his thoughts away from the report Félix had given upon returning from his excursion into the city, but as a result, memories of the trip from Anaphe rose up unbidden. He knew her pain, had felt it as his own less than a day earlier. Yet he knew that making comparisons was uncharitable of him. She would see the direction of his thoughts and know that even as he grieved with her, it was a grief that he didn’t carry any longer.

Fiona shook her head, face still buried in the fabric of his tunic. “You understand. That’s what matters. You _understand_.”

He stroked her hair, trying to bring peaceful thoughts to the forefront of his mind as she struggled for composure. He felt her relax as he pictured the calm of a night passage, imagined the feel of a soft breeze and the sound of waves against the hull. Her shoulders shook with a few final hiccoughs before stilling.

“What are those?” she whispered.

“Firefish.”

“Like lightning bugs of the sea.”

“Very much like that, yes.”

She pulled back with a sniffle, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “Thank you.”

“I know you cared very much for him,” he murmured.

“Uncle Verne knows,” she cut him off, answering his unspoken question. “Grandfather doesn’t. I told Lady Agatha first. She spoke to Uncle Verne for me.”

“What did he say?”

“He was unhappy. I think I proved why he thinks young women shouldn’t be trusted to be their own minders.”

“And what do you think?”

Fiona’s features hardened. “You may think that I’ve been foolish, but I don’t regret it.”

Arden shook his head. “Not foolish, no. I hope for your sake that word of it never leaves our House, but I know that you would have regretted turning your back on him even more, no matter the outcome.”

She gave a watery smile. “And to think that Uncle Verne said you weren’t a romantic.”

“Now that’s where we differ: I think it only practical to love hard and love well whenever we can, for how often do we get the chance?” He reached for his coffee. “Were you surprised by Valory’s leniency, as well?”

“He spoke to you about this?”

“No, but I know him. The social mores of the nobility would have been the least of his concerns at the time, and I know he doesn’t have much patience for such matters to begin with.”

“He found out the night of the assassination attempt. He said he thought it silly to be upset about my prospects when I had just saved his life.”

“It seems you reached something of an accord with him.”

“He did ask me to call him ‘Val’, though I didn’t understand how few used the nickname until our arrival in Armathia,” she admitted. He suspected that she was steering the topic away from mention of Malcolm, a silent request which he obliged.

“He spoke highly of you and all that you did in our House’s name. That’s no mean feat.”

Fiona fidgeted with the handle of her coffee cup. “I didn’t do all that much once he took his seat before the council. I suppose I took a lot of notes. Mostly I watched him pace in circles around his sitting room.”

Arden huffed a laugh. “He does a lot of that, doesn’t he?”

“He’s not . . . well. I wouldn’t call him the easiest man to work with.” She hesitated. “How do you do it?”

“Ah.” He was unsure whether she was asking about working with the man or living with him, and figured he’d take the easy route. “He did swear an oath to me. The words weren’t for show.” He could tell that she wasn’t satisfied with his answer, and felt another tentative brush against his thoughts. “Whatever it is you’re seeking, you can ask me outright. In fact, I’d prefer you did.”

“I’m not sure how you’ll take it.”

“Is it a question about Valory?”

“More of a statement,” she amended.

“I’m not a telepath, Fiona – you’re going to have to give me more than that.”

She set the coffee cup down with a clink. “I mentioned that I spent much time in the Regent’s sitting room. I often saw Lady Sybina while I was there, and he—” She trained her eyes on the table. “He wasn’t very kind to her. I know it was a sham in his eyes, and I know that wore on him, but . . .”

“A sixty-seven year old man with a powerful talent, a noble title, and no mean intellect should know better?” Arden completed.

“I just—” Fiona flailed for words. “I didn’t understand. He’s not a bad man, but he was so hard with her. Cold, even.”

Arden ran a hand through his hair, pulling strands loose from his queue. “This is a painful subject for me, and I know you can sense that. I suspect that’s why you hesitated to bring it up. I also suspect that you find my relationship with Val to be morally complicated because he was trothed when he and I first ran into one another in Anaphe.”

“The Anaphean court prizes fidelity.”

“I’m not pretending as though such complications don’t exist, nor do I think I come out of all of this smelling like a rose. I knew he was short with her – I saw some of it myself. I suppose I participated in it, in my own way, because I wasn’t selfless enough to send him to her, or to counsel him to show her what affection he could.”

She shook her head. “That wasn’t your responsibility.”

“I’m his Steward; such counsel is precisely my responsibility.”

“He didn’t need the counsel, Uncle. He knew he was being neglectful,” she said, eyes locked on the tabletop.

“And you want to know why he did it anyway?”

“Because he loved another. I can’t fault him for that. I know that you can’t give orders to a heart.”

“Come now,” he replied, tapping the table to get her attention. “You know that’s a half-truth else you’d not have told me what you did.”

“Then?” she asked, meeting his eyes. “I don’t know him for a cruel man. I don’t understand.”

Arden blew out a sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Valory is the sort of man who would prefer to give orders than receive them. Issue him one he doesn’t like and he’ll dig in his heels like an angry mule. He resented his father’s decision to have him marry, and so it went.”

“How can you give counsel to a man like that?”

Arden offered up a lopsided smile. “You did, didn’t you?”

“It became easier at the end,” she confessed. “But then, he never saw fit to argue a point with me.”

“He may be a bit of a bear, but he knows how to listen to the suggestions of others. He’d make for a poor Regent if he couldn’t. You’re not talking about counsel on tithes or rations, however, but something far more personal. Lady Sybina married a man, not a title.”

“I know he’s a man,” Fiona defended.

“Yet as a Regent he’s held to a higher standard than most other men, and at times, he’ll be unable to meet that standard.”

“I didn’t see him as a _savior_ ,” she argued, breaking off as Arden pushed the words ‘ _you’re doing it again_ ’ to the forefront of his thoughts. “Sorry,” she muttered. “I knew there was a man beneath the title, I just—” She sighed. Another tickle feathered across his mind. “Alright, fine – perhaps I did see him that way, at first. I was disabused of that notion soon enough. He knew he wasn’t being kind, and he did it anyway.”

“We all perform admirable feats of mental gymnastics to justify our actions. Valory is no exception.”

“And what was his justification?”

“I couldn’t tell you – I think he knows better than to try to run it past me. Be that as it may, I can assure you that he regrets how he comported himself. He believes he had a hand in her decision to turn towards Zathár,” Arden replied. “With that said, don’t forget that she was her own woman – of an age with you. To relieve her of all responsibility for her actions isn’t fair on either of them.”

Fiona pressed her fingers to her temples. “I know. I know that. I just – I wish I had said something.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“That’s not my place. I remained in office to serve, not to—”

“Don’t confuse service with servility: Stewards are not trod upon. It’s our duty to prevent men who wield an incredible amount of power from doing so unchecked. Valory must hear me out, whether or not he likes what I have to say. He ought to do the same for you.”

“To honor, guard, and guide,” she murmured, and he knew she had pulled the words from his head.

“That’s the oath we take. He has sworn to honor me, just as I have sworn to abide by his final decisions so long as they are lawful.”

“He can’t dismiss you.”

“Not unless I’ve been convicted of high treason by the Armathian council.”

“But you are his Steward, and I—”

“You are the heir of the man whose place I took,” Arden reminded her, swallowing against the tightness in his throat.

“But I am my father’s daughter, instead of his son.”

“What more could a son have done? You don’t know your own value.” From across the plaza, the cathedral bells chimed out the half-hour. “Damn, I hate to leave in the midst of this, but I can’t be late.”

Fiona nodded. “Of course, Uncle. Before you do, would you mind if I borrowed a book?”

“Are you looking for something specific?”

“A novel. A good one, the kind with a happy ending,” she said, jaw tight with the effort of keeping a level mien.

“I think I have something like that lying around. I leave the door to my sitting room unlocked. You’re welcome to browse.”

Fiona’s teeth snagged her lower lip. “Would you accompany me, just this once?”

“Does the thought of entering my rooms make you so uncomfortable?”

“In faith, no, I—” She darted a glance his way. “I’ve already been in them.”

Arden let out a surprised laugh. “Have you now, you little snoop?”

His amusement set her at ease. She drew herself up, wiping at her eyes a final time as she forced some merriment into her tone. “I have, Uncle, and if you think there’s a way in the world I could find anything I’m seeking in that mess—”

“Oh, very well. Come on.” He stood, offering his arm. “The novels are alphabetized beneath the watercolors and the wine bottles full of sea glass.”

“Of course – how did I not realize?”

“I can find them, can’t I?” he asked, leading her down the hall towards his door. “That’s what matters.”

“Whatever you say, Uncle.”

…

“They wouldn’t have you arrested,” she said, aware of how unsure she sounded.

“Hm,” Félix grunted, glancing at his reflection in the polished brass of the port light.

“Did you get enough of that sweet loaf? I have some muffins if—”

“I ate enough, Miss Ehrin.”

“And coffee? There’s still a pot on—”

Félix turned towards her, amusement writ large across his features. “You are persistent.”

“I don’t mean to mother-hen you, only—”

“You are taking care of me. I know this.”

She offered up a shrug and a smile. “Can’t help myself.”

“You are nervous.”

“Don’t want to be visiting you in prison again, is all. It’s a right pain to walk all the way to the fort and back—” She cut herself off, realizing that she had just given away the extent of the effort she had put in for an errand she had always claimed was ‘no trouble’.

The scrape of someone opening the midships companionway hatch sounded from above, alongside Niko’s sing-songed, “Short, they’re ready for you.”

“I will be one moment, Midget,” he called back. The hatch shut with a violent thump. He turned a triumphant smile her way.

“Good, now you’ve wound him up. I’m doing a rig check with him later; I get to listen to him moan about his new nickname all morning.”

“Do not start work on the shrouds without me,” he cautioned. “I will show you how we do it in Belen, and it will take half the time.”

“Yeh.” She scuffed the toe of her boot against the bottom of the companionway ladder. “Well, I reckon you don’t want to keep the King waiting. I just came down here to wish you good luck.”

“I do not need it.”

She rolled her eyes. “Félix—”

“I already have luck,” he said, reaching into his pocket. When he opened his fist in front of her, she felt her heart kick – for there in his palm was the coin she had baked into the good luck cake back in Erád.

She reached for the coin, picking it up and spinning it between her fingers. “You still have it.”

His hand wrapped around hers, palm warm against the backs of her knuckles. “Of course. You told me its luck would last a year. It is worth seven more months.”

Above their heads, Niko knocked on the deck. “Hurry it up, Belen—there’s a cavalryman waiting for you with a horse.”

Félix met her eyes. “Take care when you are aloft today, _my little warrior_.” He reclaimed the coin from her fingertips, pocketing it with a flourish. He pulled her in close.

She let him pull her forward to tuck her beneath his chin. “I’m a good climber,” she said, fitting her arms around his waist and holding on tight.

“ _You will see that sweet loaf again if you squeeze any harder_ ,” he warned, earning a giggle in response.

She felt his lips brush against the top of her head. “Just don’t be an arse to the King, alright?”

“I will make an attempt.” He pulled away, turning for the ladder and hoisting himself up on deck.

The ship’s bell tolled the half-hour. It would be some time before they would have news of the King’s verdict. She watched him go in silence, trying not to think about all that would come to pass if the verdict wasn’t a favorable one. What would become of him?

She stared at the companionway ladder, thoughts spiraling in all directions, until Niko thumped at the deck again and startled her from her reverie.

“Get off yer thumbs, Galley Tyrant – Cap wants this rig check done before the meal.”

“Alright,” she sighed, trudging up to the deck. “Hand me the harness. And Niko, if you lads pretend to drop me like you did last time—”

A broad grin split Niko’s features. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Miss Ehrin.”

…

Arden stifled a smile at the sight of Valory and Félix waiting outside the King’s chambers, each making a concerted effort to avoid looking at the other. “Good morning,” he said, touching Valory’s shoulder as he approached. Once his words were returned he extended an arm to Félix, who met him in a hearty Belenese greeting – slap to the back and all.

“You are looking better,” Félix observed, eyes darting sideways to where Valory stood.

“You didn’t see me before my first two cups of coffee,” he deflected. “We’ve been three-on six-off for so long my body doesn’t know what to do with itself.”

“Hm,” Félix grunted, a single arched brow conveying his thoughts on Arden’s attempt at misdirection.

“How’s the crew?”

“They prepare for a rig-check. This afternoon they will replace the lanyards on the mainmast shrouds.”

“They have their work cut out for them, in other words. As do you. You’re going to meet both the dowager Queen and the former High Steward this morning.”

“They are your parents, yes?” Félix asked, glancing back and forth between them.

“Val’s mother, my father.”

“They’re old hands at this,” Valory said, posture stiff. “Especially Lord Miran.”

Félix nodded. “I will take care.”

Arden wondered if he knew it for the peace offering it was.

“They’re waiting on us.”

Arden gestured at the door. “After you.”

The King’s sitting room had been outfitted for the gathered group, tables and chairs arranged in a rough circle. Valory called a greeting and made for his seat while Arden led Félix up towards the front of the room with a deferent bow in Persephone and Siath’s direction.

“Queen Persephone bar Darian, Félix son of Laszlo.”

As they exchanged a brief greeting, Arden turned to his father. Miran sat straight-backed in his chair, expression as hard as marble.

“Father,” he said, summoning the nerve to offer his arm even though he knew his father wasn’t likely to take it. He figured that the snub would warn Félix of the kind of man he was dealing with, but much to his surprise, his father leaned forward in his seat and held out his own arm to clasp.

“Well met,” Miran replied, an impersonal greeting, but one that nevertheless showed some modicum of respect for Arden’s station.

“I’m glad to see you well.” These words went unanswered, which placed Arden back on level footing once more. Turning back to Félix, he added, “My father, Miran bar Alistair.” Pleasantries exchanged, Arden took the seat to Valory’s right.

“Lord Arden before we begin, a query for you,” Siath said once they were settled. “Yesterday your surgeon mentioned that Lord Félix was a formidable opponent in the ring. Have you made use of his skill?”

“In battle, my Lord, or in training?”

“Either.”

“After our run-in with the creatures, we’ve only crossed swords with him for the sake of staying sharp. Ehrin more than the rest of us; the two of them always seem to be sparring.”

Arden couldn’t help but feel as though Siath was drawing more meaning from his words than he had intended, for the King watched him with the intensity of a bird of prey, a finger tapping against his lips as he spoke.

Siath turned his attention Félix’s way. “You wish to stay on _Windjammer_.”

“I wish to be of use,” Félix corrected.

Siath glanced over at Verne, who responded to the unspoken query with a minute shrug of a shoulder. Arden knew both Félix and his brother well enough to know what this meant: a man who was strong-willed enough to shut Zathár out of his surface thoughts would have no difficulty during the same to a minor Empath. It didn’t surprise Arden that Félix had his brother stymied.

“It sounds as though Captain Callum has use for you aboard his vessel,” Siath said, meeting Félix’s eyes. “I’ll admit that I’m not sure of your intentions, Lord Félix. I’m forced to rely upon the conclusions that others have drawn, and while I’m inclined to go with Lord Arden’s recommendation, such matters still make me uneasy.”

“We said this yesterday. All I have is my word, and that is what I offer.”

Siath’s fingers tapped against his lips once more. “If you remain aboard _Windjammer_ , I suspect that you will spend a considerable amount of time with the Regent.”

“If you think I am plotting harm upon your nation, you are wrong.”

Siath’s features hardened. “I am not speaking to you now as King, but as a brother. If any harm comes to my family at your hands, I will exact revenge in spades. Am I clear?”

Félix gave a sharp nod. “You are understood.”

“Then consider your request for amnesty granted.”

Félix pressed his closed fist against his chest. “Many thanks.”

“Have a seat, Lord Félix,” Siath continued, gesturing to the empty chair at Arden’s right. “Our next business concerns you as well.”

“You’ve looked over my report, my Lord?” Arden asked, shifting in his seat.

“We have. Is there anything else you would like to add?”

Arden fixed his gaze on a point on the wall behind Siath’s head, trying to ignore the rush of shame he felt as his thoughts turned to his failure in the West. “I wish to apologize in person for failing to complete the task with which I was charged. I know that such failure reflects poorly upon me and upon my House, a matter which I deeply regret.”

“You and my brother both seem determined to take the blame for Anaphe’s fall,” Siath observed.

“We structured our defense of Anaphe on the belief that I would bring reinforcements to combat the armies of Zathár. Without aid from the West, it would have taken nothing short of a miracle for Valory to hold the city. That is no secret.”

“Had I been able to gather better intelligence on the creatures, I might have held the city for longer,” Valory said. “Perhaps all three vessels would have made it, then, and so many soldiers wouldn’t have given their lives to aid a flawed attempt at escape.”

Arden looked away. “I brought no aid, Val. That remains.”

Miran glanced up from the papers spread before him. “In your report you wrote that you addressed the tribal council only once.”

Arden took a slow breath, calming the nerves that ate at him every time he spoke before his father. “That’s their custom. One day to present an argument, some time to deliberate, then a final debate and verdict at the end of the week.”

“I assume you spoke with the individual heads of state outside of council, then – but I can’t seem to find any record of that in your report,” Miran said, shuffling through the papers.

“I spoke with the Lord of Belen when negotiating for the right to present our argument.”

“Not the others?”

“They weren’t receptive to my requests.”

“I see.”

Arden felt himself flush. “What do you see, father?”

Miran’s eyes narrowed. “I see that you handled negotiations differently than I might have.”

A hundred responses raced through his mind, most too combative to voice aloud. Beside him, Valory tensed. “And?”

“I only wonder why you caved so easily to their terms.”

Arden gnashed his teeth together. For a moment his father’s words rattled him, causing a hundred fresh worries to spring into his mind. Had he yielded when he should have pressed on? Had he used too much deferent language in his phrasing? He balled his fists. No. Here were those old, monstrous doubts raising their heads, resurrected by his father’s presence. “My safety in Zaránd – not to mention the safety of my crew – depended on the limited goodwill of the Lord of Belen. There were some boundaries I knew better than to push.”

“I assume, then, that when the treaty was rejected you made no move to strike up agreements with the individual tribes?”

“That is outside the boundaries of the task I was charged with.”

“Yet you knew that the defense of Anaphe was at stake,” Miran continued.

Arden felt his nails dig into his palms. “I did.”

“We sent you – a man vested with the authority of the crown – so that we might better negotiate for aid.”

Arden bristled at the implication that he had played the part of a lackey rather than a Steward. It was the same old criticism: _weakness_. “You also sent me because I was willing to make a study of the West.”

“In other words?”

Perhaps his father thought him a failure, but he’d not be called weak. Not when the only true weakness was letting his father’s words warp his mind. He drew himself up in his seat, pushing doubt out of his thoughts. “You sent a Steward who may have failed to change the mind of a fledgling nation, but I knew when to push and when to let alone. I took care not to undermine their nascent alliance. I left the door for further discussion open, should they wish to pass through. To have pressed the matter would only have caused it to slam shut in my face.”

“Lord Arden is correct,” Félix said. “He would have given all and gained nothing in return, to try to speak to each Lord alone. He would have been called double-faced.”

“Two-faced,” Arden murmured.

“Yes, that.”

“Lord Félix, do you mean to tell me that your brother would have refused any offer we could have made?” Miran asked, an imperious brow arched high.

“What promises would be sweeter than those made by the demon?”

“A twenty-year freeze on all import and export taxes? Unrestricted trade between Belen and Anaphe? Dockage at our upriver harbors in order to allow your merchants access to the Gulf?” Miran suggested.

“And what would we have offered to Januz, father? To Arrindur?” Arden demanded. As Miran opened his mouth, Arden trod right over his words. “Enough. The horse is dead. I will accept blame for developing this plan, proposing it before our council, and convincing each of you that it would work. Yes, I hatched a scheme by which the defense of a city and all of its people rested upon the success of a single treaty. I thought it would work. I was wrong.”

“That is—”

“But do not,” he continued, meeting his father’s eyes, “do not _dare_ accuse me of losing this treaty through neglect or incompetence. I did what I could do. I apologized for not doing more. I will not stand by with my head bowed while you gleefully pile on.”

He held his father’s stare. The room was silent around them. Arden didn’t flinch, didn’t breathe. After an interminable moment Miran broke the stare, looking down at the report.

“Brother—”

Miran held up a hand, silencing Verne mid-sentence. He lifted his eyes to Arden once more. “It was not my intention to question your competence.”

“ _It had damn well better not be_ ,” Félix growled. Arden gave him a sharp look, but refrained from translating.

“Something to say to me, Lord Félix?” Miran asked.

Félix’s upper lip curled. “You question your son? That is unwise. You should take pride in him. He has given Madesta cause to think – and he lost none of his men.”

Miran’s stare sharpened. “You have brass, Belen, to speak thus.”

“Your son can swallow truth. Did he learn that from you, or not?”

“I suspect that most of what my son knows didn’t come from me.”

“Hm.”

Arden elbowed Félix in the ribs, figuring his father’s words for insult and having no desire to listen to a later diatribe about how he had encouraged a foreigner to fight a verbal battle on his behalf. He was surprised to look up and find his father’s level stare trained on him once more.

“Do not presume, Lord Félix, to understand a matter for which you have no reference,” Miran said. “If my sons couldn’t stand up to such questions, they’d not be Stewards. That I should be proud of them – that goes without saying. I am proud of them in equal measure.”

Arden’s breath stuck in his throat. “Father—”

“This doesn’t mean,” Miran continued, “that I agree with your approach at the tribal council. But as you once told me, we are different men. If you say you could have done no more in the West, then I will have to take you at your word.”

Arden swallowed, unable to summon more than a nod in response.

Siath cleared his throat. “Unless there are any objections, I assume we can consider the matter of an alliance with Madesta finished. They will come our way alongside Zathár’s armies.” When none voiced their disagreement, he continued, “Shall we take a moment for coffee and rolls?”

The pair of attendants who had been standing beside the door swept into the room with the aforementioned treats. Persephone cast a glance at her son before turning to engage Miran and Verne in idle conversation as their cups were refilled. Arden had spent enough time in court to know this for the distraction that it was, and offered up a silent prayer for the King’s kindness.

A touch at his elbow drew his attention Valory’s way. Arden could read the question in the tilt of his head, impassive expression notwithstanding, and gave a shrug by way of reply. “Surprise,” he said, a sardonic twist to his lips.

“Do you need a moment?”

Arden lowered his voice to match Valory’s near-whisper. “No. I’ll not give him the satisfaction.”

“He meant what he said.”

“I suppose he did. I can’t believe he has the gall to drop such words on me after forty-four years of the exact opposite.”

Félix leaned in from Arden’s right, ignoring the stony scowl that Valory wore at his intrusion. “Have I – what is it you say – put my foot in the mouth?”

Arden’s lips twitched. “ _Don’t pretend. You knew what you were doing. You switched to Oceanic so you could call it mistranslation if you caused offense_.”

Félix’s “ _hm_ ” – grunted around a mouthful of cinnamon roll – told Arden all he needed to know. To his left, Valory gave an approving nod.

“Your Belenese has improved dramatically.”

“You should hear Ehrin.”

“Coffee, my Lords?” an attendant offered, appearing beside them with a carafe.

“Milk and sugar,” Arden agreed, taking the proffered cup with a relieved sigh.

The respite was brief, but gave those present enough time to gather their thoughts. Upon finishing his roll, Félix asked to be dismissed in order to attend to duties aboard _Windjammer_ ; Siath lent him a pair of guardsmen as an escort. Félix had departed by the time Persephone and Miran’s quiet conversation came to a conclusion, and Siath took the floor once more.

“Val, I assume you spoke with Lord Arden about the difficulties encountered by our Sarian delegation.”

“I told him that Carlin was unimpressed by our previous choice of diplomat, yes.”

“I doubt the treaty would have gone through unless I had gone myself, considering the nature of Carlin’s demands, but yes – while Carlin considered Lord Hammond an admirable negotiator, he was adamant that we send someone else with him on the northward march.”

“The Regent,” Arden guessed.

“Who better to plead my suit than the man who has the authority to rule in my name?” Siath took a sip of coffee. “We have waited to move on Carlin’s offer both to allow the northward passage to thaw, and for word of the alliance with the West to reach Armathia. Without Madesta to aid us, we need Saria more than ever.”

“As you say, my Lord. I hope you aren’t trying to do me a kindness by implying that my insistence upon going West didn’t impact the Sarian treaty, for I suspect it did.”

“What’s done is done, Lord Arden. I’m only interested in how to secure Carlin’s claim to the Sarian throne and procure military support from him in turn.”

“Can we make it that far north and back in time?” Arden wondered. “When will Zathár’s armies march upon us?”

Valory turned his way. “There was no sign of the demon in Anaphe, as we suspected. The High Priest thinks he may not have the strength to rise for some time more.”

“Surely not before the longest day,” Arden reasoned.

“Not during Illen’s season, no. The High Priest has hazarded a guess that Zathár will avoid striking during Fángon’s season as well, in favor of coming for Armathia during the Season of Storms.”

“He waits for the Gods to weaken, then.”

Valory shrugged. “It’s conjecture, of course, but it seemed logical enough to me when we last spoke.”

“Do you think that leaves you enough time?”

“I don’t know,” Valory said. “The lands beyond the thaw are far, and the journey fraught with danger. I can’t imagine what our other options are. The isles alone can’t provide us with the numbers we need.”

“We must make for Saria,” Miran agreed. “We will be up to our neck in it by the end of Fanán if we receive no aid from our northern neighbor.”

“I’ll go by way of Halen,” Valory added. “With the channel near Wittenthor at its most navigable this time of year, I hope to make good time.”

“Had you considered sending _Windjammer_?” Arden asked.

“Siath gave me my choice of vessel so long as the expenditure is reasonable. Will Callum accept?”

“I’d be shocked if he didn’t. We haven’t been to Halen in years. Lars will be over the moon,” Arden replied.

“Excellent. I’ll have a messenger run him the terms of the commission once we’re through here, to see if we might get an answer before this afternoon’s council,” Siath said.

“And my orders, my Lord?”

Siath spread his hands. “I suspect Val would have my hide – crown or no – if I attempted to take his Steward from him a second time.”

Valory grunted. Arden felt a smile working its way across his face. “I’ve never been to mainland Saria, my Lord. I look forward to the journey.” A thought struck him. “We’ll need a pilot, of course.”

“We have one contracted on Halen, where you’ll meet Lord Hammond,” Siath said.

“He’ll be traveling with us?”

“Yes. Carlin thinks that Hammond is the wrong man to bring my suit to his sister, but Hammond knows Saria better than any of us.”

“When do we leave?”

“How soon can _Windjammer_ be ready?”

“Unless Callum has something to do in the yard that I’ve not heard about, I’d give us four to five days until we’re ready to depart.”

“Shall we say a week?”

“A week should be adequate, yes.”

As Arden spoke, a knock sounded upon the door, followed by a guardsman’s announcement. “Duke Edmund is here to speak before the King.”

Siath exchanged a glance with Verne. “Aught else on your agenda?”

“No, my Lord.”

“Very well, let him in,” Siath called.

The door swung open. Edmund entered, draped in the dark hues of mourning. He pulled up short at the crowded sitting room, dropping into a deep bow. “My Lords, if I’m interrupting—”

“We had just finished. I’m afraid we don’t have a seat for you, but we have coffee and rolls.”

“No thank you, my Lord. I just ate.” He turned, catching sight of Arden, back in his customary spot beside the Regent. “My Lord Steward, I was glad to hear of your safe return.”

Arden inclined his head. “And I was sorry to hear of your loss.”

Edmund touched his fingers to his brow. “Thank you, my Lord.”

“Duke Edmund,” Siath said, recapturing his attention, “what brings you here this morning?”

“I have brought all of my correspondence with Samir, as requested. You must forgive how long it took to compile. Things have been . . . difficult of late.” He placed a parcel of papers upon Siath’s desk. “The second packet is all of the information I have on those reported missing and suspected of loyalism.”

“Your cooperation is appreciated,” Siath said, gathering the papers and passing them to Verne.

“In light of that, my Lord, I had considered returning to my post at the end of the week.”

“I understand that your allotted leave of absence is coming to an end, Duke Edmund, but as we have previously discussed, I am going to ask you to leave your council seat vacant for a while longer.”

“My Lord—”

Siath held up a hand, forestalling his protests. “I understand that such measures add insult to injury. I do not wish to make your loss harder to bear. Unfortunately, your family remains at the heart of an ongoing investigation, and I cannot in good conscience allow you to return to work until your name is cleared.”

Edmund’s nostrils flared. “Have you at least considered any of your other leads, my Lord?”

“We have. You’ve kept my Steward very busy with interviews in the courtyard with ladies of standing. Little has come of it.”

“And Lester?”

Arden knocked the heel of his boot against Valory’s to get his attention. ‘ _Lester_?’ he mouthed. Valory flipped a sheet of parchment over, dipping his quill before beginning a scrawling line of script that flowed lengthwise across the page.

“When we last spoke, you suspected that he had an inappropriate influence upon your daughter. That’s a heavy accusation,” Siath said.

Arden felt Valory’s fingers tap at his elbow and looked down to see the scrawled-upon paper sitting next to his cup of coffee. ‘ _Syb spent time with L after he returned from Indar. Meals and tea. It was L’s idea for S to practice spoken Dramorian.’_

Arden grabbed the quill, adding a neat line beneath Valory’s haphazard script. ‘ _Very altruistic of him_.’

“I wouldn’t call it an accusation, my Lords,” Edmund said, “for I have no evidence.”

“Yet you question his motives,” Siath prompted.

Valory scribbled another line. ‘ _My brother had L followed after we left Armathia. Nothing.’_

‘ _Think he’s a loyalist_?’

‘ _Don’t know_.’

Edmund threw his hands up. “How can I not be, my Lords? I’m suspicious of anyone who had contact with my daughter in recent months, aside from the Regent himself. If Lester had anything to do with what happened to her, if he took advantage of her trusting nature to suit his ends—”

Valory nudged Arden again, adding another line of script. ‘ _Trying to blame L for her decision?’_

Arden met his eyes with a shake of his head. ‘ _When I thought you were dead, I blamed everyone on Ranael’s blue waters before I realized what I was doing.’_

_‘Only natural?’_

Arden frowned. ‘ _Or he’s onto something_.’

“Very well, Duke Edmund,” Siath said, cutting off both Verne and Miran, who wore matching expressions of annoyance. “I will be sure to look into the matter as soon as we’re finished with our other interviews.”

“My Lord, if you learn anything—”

“If it pertains to your daughter, you will be the first to know.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” Edmund bowed once more before sweeping out of the room.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Siath turned to his Steward. “Thoughts, Verne?”

“Edmund’s suspicions are not always beholden to logic, my Lord. Two days past he accused Lord Alec of blasphemy for a matter of little consequence. His thoughts have been disordered since the Regent brought news of his daughter’s death.”

“Yet we’ve been suspicious of Lester’s motives in the past,” Siath mused.

“And our efforts in that area have been for naught,” Verne reminded him.

Valory spoke up. “You’ve monitored his correspondence and had him watched. What if that’s not enough?”

“In other words?”

“Have his apartments searched.”

“On the suspicions of a grieving man?” Siath challenged.

“They’re not his suspicions alone, are they? We are at war with Zathár. It’s high time that we stop tiptoeing around suspects out of fear of causing offense.”

“There are laws governing such procedures,” Arden murmured.

“We struck a deal with Lester to avoid trying him for treason in front of the council, but a traitor he is – and this is a time of war. Do Armathian legal codes protect such men from search and seizure?” Valory arched a brow.

“You know very well that they don’t,” Arden replied. “But if we don’t want the council to learn what we know—”

“We’ve been beating around bushes, and it is getting us nowhere.”

“And if we find nothing, and he goes to the council over it?”

Valory shrugged. “Then we knock a sum off of the reparations he is due to pay to the crown to keep him quiet. We all know he’s the sort of man who will take a bribe, and considering the amount of money he owes, he has to know that going to the council would put his neck in a noose.”

Siath looked back and forth between them. “I’m inclined to agree with my brother. Verne?”

“The Regent’s suggestion has merit, my Lord.”

“If Lester has been working in tandem with others, as we’ve feared, we could lose access to those contacts,” Miran warned.

“If we find evidence of loyalism in his apartments, it could lead us to those very contacts,” Valory said.

Siath pressed his fingers to his temples. “Mother?”

“I’ve never much liked Lester, but your father admired his dedication to learning about the Dramorian language and culture. Beyond that – know that this may tip your hand. The walls of the inner city have eyes, and a search will not go unremarked.”

“Right. Verne,” he turned, “I want you to search his apartments yourself. Take the smallest guard detail possible; as my mother says, discretions is essential.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Let’s get on with that now, before Lester returns to his apartments for the next meal. Valory, what are your plans this morning?”

“I’ve an appointment with Little and the Master Healer, but Arden and I will be on hand midday if aught comes of the search.”

“Good. Lord Arden, if I may speak with you?”

Arden’s head snapped up. “Of course, my Lord.”

Although Siath had left off the words ‘ _in private_ ’, his tone had conveyed his meaning. Valory stood, touching Arden’s arm as he did, eyes flicking up in the general direction of the tower suite. Arden nodded; they would meet again later.

As the door shut behind the others, Siath turned a kind smile his way, leaning forward to pass him a document written in his own hand.

“I hope my request didn’t worry you, Lord Arden. I wished only to tell you something of a vision I had at the beginning of this season.”

“My Lord?” Arden forced himself to keep his eyes trained on the King rather than the paper he’d been given.

“Not that I think you have a penchant for gossip, but you should know that I’ve told few about this vision.”

“Valory?”

“Val, Verne, the High Priest, and my mother. No others.”

“I’ll keep it quiet, my Lord.”

“Good.” Siath sipped at his coffee. “I had a vision on the first day of Illád whilst praying upon Illen’s altar. As it so happened, it was a vision of Illen herself.” His eyes crinkled at the corners. “You look about as surprised as you did when my brother walked in yesterday, Lord Arden.”

“Illen herself?” Arden repeated.

“My doing, she said; her connection to our world is strong through midsummer, even more so when her name is upon the lips of our people.”

“As it would be during her season,” Arden nodded. “Is that what this is?”

“I wrote down one facet of the conversation we shared, yes. At the time I didn’t think much of it, but in retrospect one thing she said has eaten at me. Your brother suggested I show it to you.”

“To me? Why?” Arden asked, skimming the King’s flowing script.

“Something about two Stewards being better than one.”

Arden almost rolled his eyes at the old adage, but figured even kindly Siath would find such impudence unbecoming. “You asked her to aid us.”

“I did, yes. I’m afraid the vision took much from me, and my recollection of some of what we said is less than perfect. I do remember, however, that she said something about there being a way to recall her from the spirit world, and that speaking the words in a vision was not enough.”

Arden gave the paper a thoughtful frown. “She spoke to you about returning to the Eastern World in physical form?”

“I think so. But then, I remember her speaking of a binding pact to never do so again. I’m sorry Lord Arden, I wish I could tell you more. At the very least I hope you find the puzzle intriguing.”

“Intriguing it is, my Lord. Have you spoken to the High Priest about this?”

“I have. He thinks I’ve misremembered or misinterpreted parts of my vision. Perhaps he’s right about my interpretation, but the thought keeps nagging at me. I know I didn’t dream it up.”

“I’ll see what I can learn on the matter, my Lord. Thank you for sharing this with me.”

“Of course, Lord Arden. Enjoy the rest of your morning.”

Arden stood, gathering his things before offering a short bow that Siath waved off with a smile and a shake of his head. He left the King’s rooms, turning towards the cathedral.

Siath had been right about one thing: Arden loved puzzles.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter edited 8/27/2015 -- this chapter has been expanded and split into two chapters. The scene in Anaphe with Olivier, Sybina, and Alvar has been moved from a later chapter to this one and a new scene with Fiona and her sisters has been added.

_The fifth waxing month: 10, 5_

Olivier stood outside the doors of Anaphe’s great hall, sucking a breath in through his teeth. He was the first to arrive with his men, the other states trailing behind by some weeks. He had taken no small amount of pride in being the first to answer the call to arms, even knowing that he would soon have to put pride for his state below pride for his emerging nation. He hoped that Zathár would see their dedication and see fit to reward them. Belen’s former champion had turned traitor, after all, and they had amends to make.

He hated the thought that such amends would come at Dramor’s beck and call, but such was the price for freedom. It was an argument Félix had made before being corrupted by his time in captivity, one which Olivier still stood behind. Félix’s vehement testimony within the tribal council had convinced him that the only foul plot afoot was that of the Oceanic Steward whose word he defended, a man who sought to rend their alliance with Zathár and prevent their unification under a single flag.

The Oceanic dog would be disappointed. Olivier remained true to the cause, and would bring his men to fight this one final battle before gaining freedom for Madesta once and for all.

He felt eyes on his shoulders, and turned to meet the level gaze of the guard standing beside the doors to the great hall. He sneered. It would be a day worth celebrating when they could ban the pale-faced devil-worshippers from their lands once and for all.

For all that he anticipated the months to come, he was unable to hide his unease in the Dramorian’s presence. Their procession up to the highest levels of this strange Oceanic city of stone had given him a glimpse of Zathár’s foot soldiers, one which he and his men had found unsettling. He knew the sort of allies that Zathár had the power to raise, and had thought that they would be somewhat like the fish men they had fought alongside in the isles. He was unprepared for what he found in Anaphe.

The empty eyes of Zathár’s creatures sent shivers down his spine. He knew what they were – men and not-men at the same time – and found their presence so disturbing that he had to spend the march through the city reminding himself what an advantage such an ally would bring, over and over, until the things were out of sight. He feared he would never work past the unfettered disgust the sight of them inspired.

These creatures were what Félix had warned them of during that long debate with the tribal council. Félix had compared his encounter with the empty-eyed things to starting into the face of fathomless evil, and Olivier had to admit that his brother had a point. Yet if Zathár had enough power to call on allies of this kind, Olivier thought it unwise to displease him.

This alliance was a means to an end, and he would exploit it for all it was worth: even if the creatures made him feel cold inside and out.

Beside him, the double doors to the great hall swung open and Olivier heard his name and title announced in the hateful language of the desert-dwellers. He strode in with his head high, stopping as he approached the dais to give a perfunctory bow. As he raised his eyes once more he saw a Dramorian man outfitted as a General, the color woven into his quilted armor decrying his family and station to all who looked. Olivier knew him for a son of Garo and hated him at first sight, but fought to keep any hint of such from his tone. Diplomacy, he reminded himself, was different in the East.

“ _I have arrived as asked-directed by the Lord Zathár_.”

He addressed the General, but was surprised when the man deferred to the figure seated next to him on the dais. Olivier had heard stories of the girl, of course, though he had considered them rumor before now. She was pretty, mixed-blood, younger than his own wife. In Belen no General would bow to her, yet Olivier could feel why she had earned this show of respect deep in his bones.

She wielded great power. Even if he couldn’t sense it, the sight of a Dramorian General attending to a girl barely past her majority told Oliver all he needed to know.

“ _How many do you bring, and how many come with the other states who have joined our cause_?” she asked.

He described the number of men they brought both by land and by sea, elaborating on the myriad forces Madesta would send and when they were expected to arrive. She nodded as she spoke and he came to see that she was no figurehead; whatever military strategy the son of Garo had decided upon, he had shared it with her. At intervals she brought a hand up to her mouth, coughing into a kerchief that was balled up in her palm. At first he supposed she had caught a common cold, but as time passed began to hear the rattle in her chest that he knew all too well.

He realized he had stopped speaking to let her finish another string of coughs when she said,

“ _I give you my deep-apologies, Lord Olivier. I am little-sick_.”

The grimace on the General’s face made it plain to Olivier that he wasn’t alone in worrying for her health. “ _Lady Sybina made a heroic escape from the enemy. She swam far with metal-bound hands_.”

Olivier bowed his head, revising his opinion of the girl once more. Ability to speak to Zathár aside, it seemed that she was made of more than pretty features. The General’s words only confirmed his suspicions, however, and though he knew it was speaking out of turn to remark upon her condition, he doubted that a desert-dwelling son of Garo had any whit of an idea how to treat water-sickness.

“ _Mine are a sea-faring people, my Lady. I know the cough that you have. Who is your physician_?”

The General replied in her stead. “ _I have warrior-surgeons who marched with me from Arrynmathár_.”

“ _Lord Alvar has been very generous_ ,” Sybina said with a wry smile, “ _yet his warrior-surgeons do not practice medicine to the standard that I am accustomed_.”

It took Olivier a moment to understand what she implied, for he couldn’t imagine that a son of Garo would travel without first recruiting the best medicine men that Dramor had to offer. “ _You are Oceanic_.”

He realized his mistake as she leaned forward in her chair and hissed, “ _That may be my body-country, but it is not where my allegiance lies. You would do well to remember that_.”

“ _I give apologies from my deep-heart, my Lady. I did not mean to cause offense_.” He snuck a glance back at the dais where she had relaxed back into her chair. “ _I was only surprised that you would speak so well of Oceanic god-magic_.”

“ _Magic is not the word for the power they possess_ ,” she cautioned. “ _There is nothing magical about it. The Oceanic have the sort of power that makes them a terrible-strong enemy. We must not forget that_.” Another hacking cough cut off her final words. It was dry, but Olivier knew that would soon change.

“ _My Lady, if you wish to call for a respite_ —”

Sybina waved Alvar off with a hand. “ _I feel fine; it is only a nuisance. Now Lord Olivier, you say you know something of this? Tell me._ ”

Oliver straightened as her eyes fell upon him once more. “ _You have the – forgive me, I do not know what you call it. In Belenese it is called the ‘water-cough’_.” Alvar translated his words.

“ _But it is not wet_ ,” she said.

“ _Not yet, no_ ,” he agreed. “ _You are young and hale, and perhaps it will not grow deadly-strong. But you must take care._ ” At her narrowed eyes, he added, “ _My Lady._ ”

“ _What is your medicine-wisdom_?”

“ _I can have my physician come up to make the paste for you, if they do not already carry some. It is made of mint and camphor, with crushed leaves of the gum tree. The vapors ward against lung-illness and ease your cough._ ”

“ _That is a kind offer, but your men must be in need of their services, after the long march across the mountains_.”

Alvar spoke up at that. “ _Send them. If they question the order, tell them that Zathár’s prophetess is in need_.”

“ _Really Alvar_ ,” she protested, but Olivier could see how pleased she was at being fussed over by the General.

“ _Your health is of the utmost importance_ ,” he reminded her. “ _Our Lord takes much from you. I’ve seen as much with my own eyes_.”

“ _I won’t argue-dissemble on that point_ ,” she admitted. “ _Lord Olivier, send them with your report, which I will require by tomorrow’s end. The General’s second will return to the lower levels with you to help you settle-place your men within the city_.”

“ _I had thought we would camp outside of its walls, my Lady_ ,” Olivier admitted.

She waved a dismissive hand. “ _Why, when we have so much room? The walls offer protection. We will not move for some time. We must wait for the rest of your states to come to heel, and besides, our Lord is not yet ready to rise_.”

Her eyes went unfocused at that for a few moments, lips moving in silence as though she was addressing someone who wasn’t present with them in the room. Olivier felt a chill run through him when he realized who spoke with her; he had been visited in his sleep by Zathár once, and that once had been more than enough.

“ _Our Lord says you have done well, Lord Olivier_ ,” she said, a euphoric smile lighting her features as she came back to herself. “ _That is high-honor praise. As a reward, I shall grant you choice of rooms in the palace to take as your own_.”

Olivier bent into a deep bow, both to show his thanks and to hide the expression of disgust he knew must have crossed his features. The girl was powerful, but to give worship to such a creature was weakness beyond measure. He took solace in the fact that in a few months’ time, he would bend his knee to Dramor no longer.

“ _I give my heart-thanks, my Lady_.”

“ _You are dismissed, Lord Olivier_.”

With another bow he turned and made for the door, falling into step beside a tall Dramorian man he assumed was Alvar’s second-in-command. He was relieved to remove himself from the girl’s presence and tried not to think about the trial that the upcoming months would present, as he and his men were required to spend time in a city that crawled with Dramorians. He knew not whether or not Garo’s son knew what Madesta had been promised, and suspected that the creature they so devoutly worshipped hadn’t told them all of his plans.

Olivier smirked. Let Dramor feel the betrayal of their own god – it was all the same to him. In a few months’ time Belen would be free for the first time in centuries. Whatever price he had to pay in the meantime, it would all be worth it in the end.

…

_The Season of Renewal  
Illán the 3; 2422_

“He was unhappy that I returned to the ring the day after he told me my ribs were healed, of course,” Valory noted, taking a large bite from a minced beef bun.

“And Little?”

“Didn’t expect aught else from me. He did a fine job, helping them knit together when we were aboard the _Rhane_.”

“What did he say about your arm?”

“It’s coming along. I can feel as much.”

Arden’s hand strayed from his plate, fingers tapping a brief trail down Valory’s forearm. “Your enchantment?”

“Yes. It can be frustrating, to know what’s wrong but not be able to do anything about it.”

Arden cracked a smile. “They do call Healing the lone selfless talent for a reason.”

Valory hummed around a mouthful of plantains. “The Master Healer says I should be able to bear weight on it by the time we leave for Halen.”

“Just as well – can’t have you slacking off on the passage.” After a heartbeat, he realized that Valory was staring at him. “What?”

“When I was in Anaphe, I sorely missed your ability to find humor in even the most trying of times.”

Arden let out a long breath. “That may be too high a recommendation of my supposed sanguinity. It was a struggle to summon any kind of cheer these past weeks.”

“Yet you carried on.”

“I did.”

“Your niece takes after you, I think. She grieves, but she is not cowed.”

“These are dark times. I’d like to think she understands that lying down and letting go of all hope will only make them darker.”

“I’ll not lie down even when hope is lost.”

A warm swell of admiration flooded him at Valory’s words. “I’ll be proud to stand with you, then.”

His words earned a brief smile before Valory returned his attention to the meal. “What was my brother’s business with you?”

Arden conceded to the digression; for all that the Reckoning was upon them, he was happy enough to speak on lighter matters. “He told me of his vision of Illen.”

“Remarkable, isn’t it?”

“To be sure. I was interested in what he said about Illen having a means of returning from the spirit world.”

“Any conclusions?”

“Illen’s words to him corroborated all that’s in the Scriptures – that the Gods are never again to take physical form. When Siath spoke of a method by which we could appeal to them for aid, my thoughts went first to the Illen Stone.”

“And the High Priest said?”

“He reiterated what he said in council some months past – that no man can touch it, for it will burn a man’s mind from the inside and give him nothing in return.”

Valory’s foot nudged his beneath the table. “Why do I get the feeling you disagree?”

“I’m not accusing him of falsehood, only, my mind keeps going back to the text I found in Lawrence’s library on Kilcoran. Do you remember it?”

“Which one?”

“I read passages to you when we were on board _Windjammer_ together the first time. It was the story of Arin bar Loren and his encounter with the Stone.”

“Wasn’t his mind burned for his efforts, just as the High Priest said?” Valory finished the last of his meal, pushing the plate away and standing with a stretch.

“His aims were ignoble. He sought to aid the campaign across the mountains into Belenese and Arrindurian territory.”

“Ah, I remember now: the tale was a curiosity because of his brother’s miraculous survival of an otherwise deadly wound.” Valory paced a circle around the table. “Do you think that Illen’s doing?”

“I don’t know, but it eats at me.”

“Isn’t it just as likely that his brother’s wound was exaggerated, or the nature of his recovery fairy story? If the High Priest says that his orders are to keep men from touching the Stone because the power it contains is deadly, I’m inclined to believe him.”

Arden gave a noncommittal hum in reply, pushing a grain of rice around his plate with a fork. His instincts told him that there was more to the story of the Stone than the High Priest let on, but he suspected that little would come of voicing his suspicions aloud. What reason had he to doubt the man’s words? Better to wait until he had garnered evidence for his argument.

Valory’s hand landed on his shoulder, thumb seeking out the tight muscles as the base of his neck. Arden set down his fork, leaning into the touch with a contented sigh. He dropped his head back against Valory’s stomach to peer up at him through half-lidded eyes.

“We have almost two hours before council,” he observed.

“Any suggestions on what we should do with that time?”

“A few.” A slow smile spread across his face.

“That sounds promising.” Valory stepped away, heedless of Arden’s wordless protest. “Let me gather the plates and set them down outside first, to stave off any interruption, before we—”

It was at that precise moment that Verne burst into the sitting room without knocking, chest heaving from the climb. Arden sent a brief prayer of thanks up to the Gods that his brother hadn’t arrived any later, else scriptural puzzles would have become the least of their concerns.

“To what do we owe this pleasure, Lord Verne?”

“We need both of you right now.”

The lack of formality in Verne’s address had Arden on his feet in a heartbeat. “What’s happened?”

“I come from Lester’s apartments. In a locked box buried beneath his smallclothes I found the Book of the Damned along with several other religious texts and articles of worship. We have him in custody in the King’s suite right now.”

“Let’s go.” Valory made for the door, Arden and Verne on his heels.

They reached the royal wing in a matter of minutes. Leading the charge, Valory slammed through the door to the King’s sitting room, startling Lester enough that he nearly upset his chair.

“My Lords,” he said, brandishing his manacled wrists before him, “this is an outrage—”

“Do not speak unless you are spoken to.” Valory crowded into Lester’s space. “I warned you what would come to pass if you withheld anything from us.”

“But my Lord, I told you everything, I—”

“Enough.” This was Siath, seated at his desk, examining the items spread before him. Valory pulled back, stalking over towards the windows. “Lord Arden, can you have a look at this?”

Arden took the book from Siath’s hands, turning it over before leafing through its pages. “What do you wish to know, my Lord?”

“Is it authentic?”

“It is, my Lord – same as the copy in the High Priest’s possession.”

“And these?”

Arden studied the various objects; etched metal and stone, candles, incense, and a stack of texts written in Old Dramorian. “It would take me some time to translate the texts, my Lord; Old Dramorian isn’t my strong suit.”

“And the etchings?”

Valory turned from the windows to have a look for himself. He paused, hand hovering over one of the pieces of etched metal. “These characters – what are they?”

“I think they’re meant to be used like prayer beads, my Lord,” Arden said, picking one up to examine it. “You’d put it in your pocket and rub it between your fingers, like this. I’m not sure what that one means, but this means ‘devotion’, more or less.”

“My wife wore something similar about her neck. Imran told me it was an heirloom of sorts.” He turned, pinning Lester with his stare. “But these are not jewelry.”

“I’ve never seen those before,” Lester swore. At Valory’s arched brow, he hastened to add, “Rather, of course I’ve seen such things in Indar, my Lord, but those aren’t mine. Those are articles of worship, and I remain devoted to the Brother and Sister—”

“Then what were they doing in your possession?” Verne asked, folding his arms across his chest.

Lester’s jaw dropped. “I—my Lords, I have no idea what—did you search my apartments? Did you find _those_ in my apartments? That’s preposterous—”

Valory picked up the Book, opening to a random page and holding it in front of Lester’s face. “Read us a story from your smallclothes drawer, Lester.”

Lester’s eyes grew wide, blood draining from his face as he saw what had been thrust in front of him. “My Lord, that’s the Book of the Damned—”

“My point precisely.”

“But it isn’t mine, my Lord. I’ve never read the thing, not even out of curiosity—”

Valory’s eyes narrowed. “I would think very carefully about lying to me a second time.”

“I’m speaking the Gods’ honest truth, my Lord. I have nothing to do with those things. I have no idea how they got there. Perhaps someone is trying to frame me – I have enemies in the court . . .” he trailed off, looking back and forth between the four of them, wide-eyed.

“Is he lying?” Siath asked.

Verne shook his head. “I can’t tell. He has a diplomat’s mind.”

Lester’s eyes dropped to Verne’s talisman before raising back up to his face. “My Lord, I swear on my mother’s ashes that I’m speaking the truth.”

Verne turned to Valory. “You have a telepath amongst your men, do you not?”

“He’ll be in the fort this time of day.”

“Send for him, Verne,” Siath said, standing. “Have the guardsmen outside the door keep an eye on Lord Lester, then join us in the other chamber.” He swept towards the door at the back of his sitting room, Arden and Valory on his heels.

When the door shut behind them, Arden realized that they were in the King’s spacious bedchamber. Against the far wall a four-poster bed dominated the room, its sheer white linens and carven wooden headboard capturing his immediate attention. It boasted motifs of sea creatures and historic battles, all gilt edges and rich varnish. His eyes roved over the walls next, where panel after panel of fine woven tapestries played out Oceana’s history. In the center of the first tapestry stood Eramen and Drand, a crown of flowers upon Eramen’s brow, arms clasped in a show of friendship and trust.

He stepped further into the room, studying the scenes on each panel before coming to the row of windows along the far wall. They opened onto a wide stone balcony with an eastern view; upon it the King could survey all the city levels, the harbor, and the sea beyond.

“Brother, I see that few details escape your Steward’s notice.”

Arden started, turning back to Siath with a guilty shrug. “I’m afraid my curiosity got the better of me, my Lord. Apologies.”

Verne slid into the room then, shutting the door behind them. “The Empath has been summoned. Perhaps he’ll have better luck than I did. If he does, he’s a man of great talent. Lester keeps even his surface thoughts close.”

“You gleaned nothing from him?” Siath asked.

“My Lord, you know that my ability is meager. I didn’t feel the disconnect I associate with false testimony, but that means little.”

“If he’s telling the truth, then how did a locked box full of Dramorian paraphernalia end up in his smallclothes drawer?” Arden asked. From the look Verne gave him, he suspected he had completed his brother’s thought.

“We have three possibilities, as I see it,” Valory said, beginning to pace. “One, Lester is a loyalist. Two, Lester is an idiot with a penchant for collecting illicit items. Three, Lester is being framed.”

Verne folded his arms across his chest. “I think we can rule out the second possibility.”

“Ah,” Arden murmured, “but Lester _is_ an idiot.”

Valory shot him a sharp smile. “Be that as it may, I agree with your brother. The question becomes, if Lester is telling the truth, _who_ put the items we saw in his apartments and, moreover, who would have access to such things?”

“We have half the Anaphean nobility within our walls as we speak.”

“And we know that Edmund gave his daughter a similar heirloom,” Valory agreed. “We’ve been conducting interviews up until now. Perhaps more direct measures are necessary.”

“More searches, you mean?” Siath asked. “Many Anaphean noblemen reached us before the _Rhane_ arrived.That is no small undertaking.”

Valory’s jaw tightened. “Do you consider my proposed measures extreme? I have already seen one city fall. In Anaphe I was lax in my judgment and gave trust where none was warranted. I will not make the same mistake twice. If we have a traitor in our midst I will sniff him out, no matter how it must be done.”

“So we search the possessions and quarters of all those who have been housed within the upper levels since the evacuation began,” Siath said, pressing his fingers against a temple.

“Start with Edmund.”

“You think he’s a loyalist?” Siath’s brow rose.

“No,” Valory admitted, “but let him open his doors to us and prove he had naught to do with all we found in Lester’s apartments.”

“It seems absurd, that we are looking for reasons to exonerate a man who has falsified dispatches and taken bribes from Garo. What possible reason could any have to incriminate him?” Siath asked.

Arden turned away from the window. “Not all motives will lead back to the demon. An Anaphean who lost their home may blame Lester’s incompetence, or perhaps his inability to keep the peace. He has enemies in court who accuse him of Dramorian sympathy – perhaps they seek to speed along a conviction. In Edmund’s case, framing Lester would exonerate his family. If Lester was publicly blamed for Sybina’s betrayal, then Edmund would regain his council seat and our good graces.”

Valory tilted his head. “You would have made a devious enemy of the crown, do you know that?”

Arden cracked a smile. “Good thing I’m your Steward, then.”

“Yet how are any of those possibilities more likely than the one right beneath our noses? After twenty years in the Indarian court, perhaps Lester’s loyalties no longer sit with Oceana. We already know that his priorities have been misaligned for some time. His blubbering protests may be no more than a product of honed acting talent,” Verne said.

“He _is_ a diplomat.”

“I hate the thought that Lester sowed the seeds of discontent in Lady Sybina’s mind even as we were having him watched,” Siath admitted. “I’d almost rather this was the work of another, than to think that we failed so tremendously by electing to delay his arrest.”

Arden rubbed his hands down his face. “Beliefs are oft governed by hope as much as by fact, my Lord.”

“Yet fact is what we need. We must have every potential subject – no matter how unlikely – searched and questioned,” Valory insisted. “We can’t afford to keep guessing wrong.”

Siath let out a long-suffering sigh. “Verne, can I look to you to organize an operation on this scale?”

“Of course, my Lord.”

A knock sounded upon the door, and Arden realized that he could feel the tickle of another signature at his temples. Sure enough, it was Gabriel’s solemn visage that appeared before them when Valory opened the door.

“My Lords,” he said, bowing his head. “I came as soon as I could.”

Siath stepped forward, leading the way back into the sitting room. “Good. Verne, you have your mission. We’ll carry on here.” He turned towards Valory. “Well brother – you’ve always been better at this than I.”

Valory strode into the center of the room, features grim and drawn. “Lord Lester, I think it’s time we speak about a mutual acquaintance of ours.” He met Lester’s eyes. “My late wife.”

.

Arden looked over the bulleted observations he had jotted down throughout Lester’s interrogation – words upon words, all amounting to little. Lester had remained steadfast in his denial of further involvement with either Garo or Dramor, and continued to claim that the objects found in his smallclothes drawer weren’t his own. Although he had admitted to passing time with Lady Sybina, he insisted that he had done so at her invitation, and only because of her curiosity about the peculiarities of Indarian pronunciation – something Arden sincerely doubted.

“Well?” Valory’s voice was whip-crack sharp in the silence that had reigned since Lester’s exit beside two of Armathia’s guardsmen.

“He is afraid,” Gabe said, running a hand over the back of the chair where Lester had sat.

“That’s all you could gather?”

“You’re angry.”

“Of _course_ I am, I—”

“That’s as much as I can tell. It’s a surface thought,” Gabe said, a small smile pulling at his lips. “It doesn’t have much meaning – just as Lester’s fear tells me little if I don’t know the source.”

“And you couldn’t discover it?”

“Lester dropped his guard over his surface thoughts, just as you commanded – but men of your station can control thought at that level to prevent me from prying. I’m not as strong as Rubin – or even Lady Fiona, when her talent is waxing. Besides, it’s likely that many of the answers you seek lie deeper than his mind’s surface.”

“Then let’s have him brought back, so you might look further.”

Gabriel cocked his head. “In all the time I’ve served with you, I’ve never known you to ask a man to strip naked while being questioned.”

“That’s not—”

“It’s exactly the same. If he hides his motives as far down as other diplomats I’ve encountered, the guard you speak of is not for me to breach. If I peered past it, I would see and touch _everything_.”

The crease in Valory’s brow deepened. “If I suspected a man of concealing a weapon—”

“We cannot police a man’s thoughts, Valory.”

“Even if he conceals intent to harm Oceana?”

Gabriel leveled Valory with a searching stare. “You know that a man’s innermost walls are his sanctum. Even if I could crack his guard I wouldn’t do it. Don’t ask that of me. Don’t give me cause to disobey you.”

“Gabriel.”

“Perhaps it’s time for me to take my leave.” He offered a bow in Siath and Arden’s direction. “My Lords.”

He opened the door to exit, only to come face-to-face with a messenger whose fist was raised mid-knock.

“Let’s have it,” Siath said, extending a hand. The messenger delivered a folded sheet of paper to him before bowing out of the room, following Gabriel into the hall.

“Verne?” Valory asked.

Siath made a pained noise, passing the missive Arden’s way. “Lord Arden, your brother spent far too much time in the military.”

Arden skimmed the lines of gibberish written in Verne’s elegant hand. “Substitution code,” he said, lips ticking up in a fond smile. “We used to write like this as children. What letter does he use?”

“An S ‘for ease’, or so he claims. He won’t accept that it breaks my mind to try and decipher it.”

Arden read through the letter again with Siath’s words in mind. “Verne says he searched the rooms of Edmund and my nieces personally, and sent two trusted guardsmen to examine Jarmon and Halin’s quarters. Nothing. They’re moving along to the others; he promises updates as he goes.”

“Good,” Valory said.

Siath let out a long breath. “Good news, yes. I’m sure we’ll have to answer for our decision before the council this afternoon, however.”

“What time is it?” Arden asked, glancing out towards the windows.

“A half-hour till we’re required in the chamber,” Siath replied. “To that end, I think I might have to leave any further discussion for this evening. I’ll admit that I haven’t eaten in some hours, and suspect that I will grow ill-tempered unless I have some time to do so.”

Knowing Siath’s words for a dismissal, Arden and Valory bid their goodbyes and found themselves making for the Regent’s apartments which, despite having been reopened upon Valory’s return, hadn’t seen occupants since his last stay in Armathia. As soon as they entered Valory dropped into one of the wingback chairs before the empty hearth. He sat still for all of a minute before leaping to his feet and beginning to pace once more. Arden watched him wear a track into the carpet, thinking of how strange such behavior must have seemed to Fiona all the while.

“Peace,” he murmured, surprised when Valory turned a wild-eyed stare upon him.

“Anaphe fell under my watch,” he said, a statement that Arden hadn’t anticipated.

“We’ve spent all morning pointing fingers.”

“I’ll point another one then, shall I? I’ll point it at myself. Anaphe fell under my watch. Perhaps the city would have fallen no matter what I did, but it might not have fallen with such violence had I not been blind to the traitors who operated under my very nose.”

Arden reached out, arresting Valory mid-stride. “It’s passed.”

“No.” Valory turned on a heel, stare fixing upon Arden’s face. “It’s not. It’s happening again, here in Armathia, just as it did in our twin city. Someone in this city is toying with us. Perhaps it is Lester. Perhaps it isn’t. Perhaps it is a network of men—”

“Valory.”

“ _Listen to me_ ,” he ground out. “I saw unspeakable atrocity in Anaphe. You don’t understand what those creatures can bring to our doorstep. I sent Malcolm and his men to their deaths – and when the gauntlet fell I fled.”

“We have had this out before. You are the Regent. You couldn’t fall with Anaphe’s walls—”

“I know. I _know_.” Valory spun away, stalking back to the windows. “But it weighs upon my conscience. Their faces haunt me. Perhaps that’s only right – but I will not let the same happen to Armathia.”

Arden wasn’t sure what Valory’s point was – or if he even had one – but went along with him regardless, following him to the windows and laying a hand upon his uninjured shoulder. “We will right our mistakes and bring aid to our city, Val. I have faith.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

“Oh?”

“There were men in the Anaphean council who I didn’t and couldn’t trust. Yet because they were too clever to give me cause to act against them, I did nothing.”

“You had no other options.”

Valory met his eyes. “I have options now.”

“I hope you’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

“We could learn who is friend or foe in the space of an afternoon.”

Arden turned away from the windows. “No.”

“We are at _war_.”

“This isn’t akin to Gabriel skimming off unguarded personal thoughts. What you’re suggesting is a crime – a violation of the sanctity of the very personhood of your fellow men—”

“And should their personhood be prized over the lives of every man, woman, and child within this city?” Valory demanded, turning to face him.

Arden’s voice fell to a harsh whisper. “What are you _thinking_?”

“It’s a means to an end.”

Arden threw up his hands. “What means? No man would consent to such a search. Were I in Lester’s place, I’m not sure I’d even know how.”

“Gabriel—”

“Gabriel told you himself: only a man like Rubin has the strength to smash open the hinges of another man’s deepest mind – a skill I doubt he has ever put into practice,” Arden said, unable to keep the disgust from his voice. There were some things that even powerful telepaths could not – and should not – see.

“There are circumstances under which those hinges might be weaker, are there not?”

“Does it matter? No matter the strength of a man’s innermost barriers, you’re still talking about mind-torture.”

“Your niece—”

“No.” The word fell from his lips like a thunderclap. “Don’t even—don’t you dare suggest such a thing. After all that has happened to her, I’ll not have you use her nascent talent for _this._ I forbid it.” He held Valory’s stare, hand clenched white-knuckled around the edge of the windowsill.

Valory’s upper lip curled. “She watched her home fall to the ravages of creatures. I cannot be the only one who is short on mercy.”

“And I, as the man who has taken up the role her father was born to, will not let her make a decision that will remain a stain upon her soul.”

“What is the point of keeping our consciences clean if Armathia burns?” Valory demanded. “We must fight fire with fire.”

“I am a Steward of Oceana, bound to serve you and our people. I will fight for you. I will—” his voice broke. “I will kill for you. But this – no. This is where the line is. I will not watch you perform an act so heinous it is punishable as a war crime even in times of peace. No. I won’t do it.”

“Not even if it means protecting our city from the eyes that Zathár has sought to plant within our borders?”

Arden shook his head. “No ends can justify the means you’re contemplating. Not for me. Call it shortsighted, call it high and mighty, call it whatever you want. I will not allow it.”

“Then what?” Valory challenged, voice rising. “Do we roll over for the demon? Let his spies run roughshod over us because we are too afraid to play their game?”

“And what does it say about us if we play it? Doesn’t the demon win if we give up who we are, our very moral fiber, in an attempt to best him?” He took a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose and centering himself before continuing. “I understand why you seek what you seek. I saw what the creatures can do to a village full of innocents; you are not the only one who has had that dubious honor. When I think about the future and the battles to come, I fear for our people. _Fángon_ —I fear for myself. For you. I’d be a fool not to.”

“We’ve been through this before,” Valory insisted. “After we captured the _Madesta_ , what we learned from the Commodore saved Kilcoran.”

“I know.”

“We need information now, just as we did then. I get no joy from it, but—”

“Stop.” Arden held his stare. “I don’t regret thwarting the attack on Illen’s Arm, but what we did to Félix was still wrong. And that – _Gods_ , Val – putting him on the board doesn’t even come close to what you’re proposing: to the kind of pain and terror you would visit upon another man.” He turned away, stalking back across the room. “And to make the barriers of his inner mind pliable, what? Would you starve him? Beat him? No.”

Valory followed him away from the windows. “I won’t play at keeping my soul clean while my city crumbles. I said it at Illen’s Arm, and I’ll say the same now. What if Armathia falls because of information I could have acquired, but didn’t?”

Arden let out a long breath. “If we become the sort of men who will violate our own people to suit our ends, then perhaps there’s nothing left in Armathia that’s worth saving.”

“That is _bullshit_.” Valory’s balled fists trembled with anger. “There are innocent men, women, and children within our walls, and you’d weigh their lives against the comfort of a single man who has already proved traitorous intentions—”

“Do you think Illen gave us these gifts so we could use them to do this to our fellows—”

“To save _lives_ ,” Valory argued.

“But at what cost?”

They stared at one another for a long moment, caught at an impasse, neither willing to give an inch. When it became clear that Valory had no more words to speak, Arden forged on, voice shaky.

“As Regent you are often above the letter of the law, but don’t think for a moment that you’re above its spirit. Don’t stoop to this. Don’t twist the laws set down to protect your people in order to further your ends – even if those ends are noble.”

Valory’s lips thinned. “Is that your counsel?”

“Yes.”

“And if I decide to do this anyway?”

Arden let out a mirthless laugh. “Oh, make no mistake – you will not involve my niece in this.”

“Then I will speak to Gabriel.”

Arden sucked in a sharp breath. “Will you? Then what good am I as a Steward if you only listen to me when I give you counsel you would have followed even in my absence?”

“And what sort of a Regent am I if I never make a true decision, but only ever follow the suggestions of others?”

“No one would ever accuse you of being so cooperative.” Arden turned away. “I will see you in council. Think about what I’ve said.”

“Walking away?”

He took a deep breath, willing himself not to rise to the pointed edge in Valory’s tone. “No more good will come of us circling around this issue – unless you have something further to add?”

“Only that I hope you straighten your priorities.”

Arden bit his tongue. He couldn’t imagine how it was possible that he could be both thrilled that Valory was hale and whole, yet also want to strangle him at the same time. “Right.” If he didn’t leave now, they’d wind up in another knock-down-drag-out, and he wanted no part in that.

As he started to shut the door behind him, he heard Valory mutter something unflattering under his breath.

Opening the door wide enough to stick his head back through, he hissed, “Stop trying to pick a fight with me to justify the dismissal of my opinion.”

He shut the door before Valory could reply, stalking off in the direction of the council chamber. He’d need a few minutes to compose himself before sitting before politicians and diplomats once more, where he would no doubt rehash the same conversation he’d had earlier that day in detail. As angry as he was, and as little cause he had to support Valory’s proposal, he knew better than to voice such matters aloud before others.

He grit his teeth. It was his job to ensure that they presented a united front. If that meant waiting until he and Valory were in private before taking him to task once more, then so be it.

…

Fiona looked up from her seat beneath the boughs of an old willow as the distant toll of the cathedral bells heralded the end of that afternoon’s council. She allowed herself a brief indulgent moment where she wondered if uncle would remark over her absence, but pushed it from her thoughts as quickly as it had come. Her place was no longer in the council hall – not after all that had come to pass – and there was no use in pining for what used to be.

Her fingertips tightened around the worn leather spine of the book she held, a novel from her uncle’s bottomless collection. It was just what she had requested – a rollicking adventure, a happy romance – but every line of dialogue seemed hollow to her, underscored by the empty ache in her breast that prevented her from losing herself in words. No matter how hard she concentrated, there was no escaping the grief that dogged her.

She was, once again, naught but a nobleman’s young daughter. Her city had fallen, and with it her purpose.

Malcolm was dead.

Hot tears welled in her eyes. She fought them, blinking, scrubbing at her face with the heels of her hands. She had known that he wouldn’t survive the attack if Anaphe’s walls fell. Some traitorous part of her, however, still held out hope for a miracle. She hadn’t realized how much that little flare of hope had sustained her until a look at her uncle’s memories snuffed it out. She had prayed to the Gods every night in hope that he had been spared, but no amount of begging or bartering could bring him back now. He had gone to meet Illen.

She felt hollowed out, raw around the edges. She knew that Malcolm would hate to see her like this, but somehow that only managed to make her feel worse. He had called her strong, had said he admired her verve and resolve, but she was unworthy of such praise. She wasn’t like her uncle. She couldn’t lose so much and still carry on.

The rustle of willow boughs drew her attention, stirring the scent of grass and flowers that permeated the courtyard of the House of Stewards. A glance over her shoulder confirmed that her sisters approached, arm-in-arm with their heads bent together in conference.

“Have you been here all day?” Alicia asked, not unkindly, as they dropped down to sit before her. She arranged her skirts with modest care while Alma flopped over onto her back, silk and lace twisted haphazard around her ankles.

“Uncle Arden loaned me a book,” Fiona said by way of defense, marking the page and setting it down before her.

“You’ve seen him already?” Alma asked, perking up.

“We broke our fast together this morning.”

“Is he alright? What did he say? Did he tell you about the West? I heard a rumor that he saw Anaphe after we left,” Alma continued, rolling over onto her stomach, chin in her hands and face the picture of earnest curiosity.

“Nothing like that, no – though the rumor about Anaphe is correct. He knows about Captain Malcolm. I suppose he was checking up on me.”

Alma caught her lower lip between her teeth. “So the Captain, is he . . . ?”

Fiona didn’t need to respond; one of Alicia’s hands slipped into hers as Alma scooted forward to lay her cheek upon Fiona’s knee. “Your grief is ours, sister,” Alicia murmured.

“Please, can we not speak of this?” Fiona implored.

Alicia studied her features, lips pressed into a worried line. “I don’t know what else you’d have me say.”

“Tell be about anything. You were in the palace today, weren’t you? Who’s debuting with you? Or Alma, how are you lessons going? And your new friend?” Fiona cast about for anything that would take her mind off of Anaphe and the words she had shared with her uncle that morning.

“I was in the palace, speaking with the other women making their debut. They’re all a year my junior, and a bit wary of me, but they seem nice enough,” Alicia said, indecision warring in her features as she cast her eyes down to the beribboned fan that hung from her wrist. “Fi, I know you don’t want to speak about him, but—”

“ _Please_ , Alicia—”

“Lady Deanna is very kind,” Alma interrupted, forced cheer in her tone. “She’s Alicia’s age, but she’s not snooty about me being beneath my majority. She’s smart and funny, and she does a really good impression of her father. I think he’s a councilor,” she continued. “But he speaks in that highborn accent and she doesn’t use it unless she has to.”

“Does she study with you?” Fiona asked, grateful for the distraction.

“Oh no, she’s finished with hers and didn’t elect to continue. Besides, I’m well beyond her in maths. I’ve told her about my studies, but she doesn’t think it strange that I like it so much – not like Halin’s daughter.”

“I’m glad to hear you’ve found a friend.” Fiona was glad that Alma didn’t take her melancholy as disapproval or disinterest, forging along with a wide smile pulling at her cheeks.

“You’d like her. Maybe you can come to the courtyard to meet her sometime?” Alma rolled off of Fiona’s knee to lie on her back in the grass once more. “If not that’s alright. I understand. But I was wondering if I could go to her family’s home tomorrow afternoon?”

“So long as it’s alright with her father, I don’t see why not.”

Alicia cocked her head. “Surely the courtyard in Lord Alec’s residence is no finer than the one allocated for our use in the palace.”

“Dee likes to bake, and she offered to show me how. She told me that she makes the best honey cakes in Armathia, and at first I laughed at her but then she told me that there’s a midsummer festival in the square for Illen’s Day, and that she’s won the competition two years in a row. I’m not much for baking, you know, but I’m not about to pass up the opportunity to taste Armathia’s best honey cakes.”

“Well that’s only sensible,” Fiona murmured.

“Think you can smuggle some back for us?” Alicia asked, smiling down at her little sister.

“I’m sure Dee will make some extras if I ask.”

“Who’s Dee?”

Their heads snapped up at the swish of parting willow boughs. “Uncle Arden!” Alma cried, shooting to her feet and running full-tilt into a crushing embrace. Fiona and Alicia followed behind with less exuberant greetings, Alicia taking Arden’s hand once Alma’s arms were no longer wrapped around his neck.

Fiona was glad to see her sisters so at ease in their uncle’s presence; though they had spent less time with him than she had, his kindness has put Alicia at ease and his encyclopedic knowledge of Athor’s Theorems had won Alma over straight away.

“Will you sit with us?” Alma asked, dragging him back towards the patch of grass beneath the willow.

“Perhaps we should find a bench,” Alicia suggested, giving her sister a pointed glance.

“Not on my account.” Arden dropped down into the grass where Alma had lain, propping himself up on his elbows. “It’s a fine thing, being a Steward instead of a King,” he said, gesturing to his dark blue trousers. “We can roll around in the garden and no one will ever be any the wiser.”

Alma giggled, dropping down next to him and saying something about the King’s raiment. Alicia joined in on the conversation, explaining the intricate artistry involved in creating the embroidery that edged the Regent’s cuffs. At first Fiona suspected that their uncle was indulging them, but after a few pointed questions it became clear that he was following Alicia’s explanation because the art was a hobby of hers, and he wanted to work out why she took such joy from it.

Fiona listened to their conversation with half an ear, nursing the bittersweet ache in her heart at having what was left of her family gathered so close, forcing her to feel the absence of the departed all the more keenly. Her sisters still mourned for Anaphe, she knew, even though they put on brave faces for her sake. It made her glad at heart to know that the smiles they now wore were not for show, but a response to their doting uncle’s attention.

As Alma jumped into Alicia’s narration to explain the mathematical and philosophical significance of the stitch sequence used for royal embroidery, Fiona felt her uncle’s eyes fall upon her. She recognized the quiet, assessing quality of his gaze, and knew that he was trying to work out the cause for her absence from council. As Alicia finished her demonstration by pointing out the ways and reasons why the King and Regents’ cuffs would be dissimilar, Arden’s gaze slipped from Fiona’s. If he had found whatever he was looking for he made no mention of it, and so neither would she.

“I hadn’t thought there was so much thought behind it, though embroidery does take no small amount of skill,” he mused, splaying the fine cuff of his tunic out for Alicia and Alma to see. “So tell me – what does all of this say, if even my shirtsleeves are full of hidden meanings?”

Fiona lay back in the grass and shut her eyes as her sisters launched into an explanation of how the crescent moons were always placed at cardinal directions, letting herself relax into the familiarity of their voices. They were happy here, animated in spite of all that had been taken from them since their mother’s death.

A long sigh left Fiona’s lips. Above her a songbird landed in the willow, tweeting out its melody. It was an unfamiliar song, of a bird that didn’t live as far south as Anaphe. It was small reminders such as these that kept her off-balance, kept her steeped in melancholy, kept her mind dwelling on the events of the past several weeks.

Yet as she listened to the chatter of Armathian songbirds weave in and out of her sister’s voices, she finally let herself see that while she had lost much, she hadn’t lost everything.

…

As day turned to night, Arden left Fiona and her sisters in the House of Stewards to prepare for the evening’s social obligations. He was glad to have found the time to spend with them after council; he cherished their company, even if their moods were subdued of late. Even Alicia, who had borne the strain with the most ease, admitted that navigating Armathia’s walls was painful; the similarities to Anaphe were just enough to smart at the most inopportune of times.

Arden’s thoughts, however, were far from Armathia’s twin city as he made for the palace. With only a half-hour before their presence was required at the debut of a work written by one of Siath’s court musicians, he went in search of Valory. Council had been fraught and fractious as always, and as frustrated as he remained with Valory’s choices, he knew it was important for the Regent and Steward to appear at such functions side-by-side – especially during wartime.

A handful of queries indicated that none had seen the Regent since council was dismissed, and on a hunch, Arden headed for the tower suite. He found Valory in the courtyard set off the hall that lead to the tower, kneeling at a small mosaic altar with his head bent in prayer. The boughs of ancient sweetflower trees arched above his head. Illen’s season had peppered them with blooms, small petals of which fell at intervals onto Valory’s hair and clothing. It was a strange echo of those long months before, when Arden had stood by his side as he donned a crown of flowers and wed a woman who would later turn traitor to their cause.

Valory must have heard his footsteps, for his fingers stilled around the small shell he had laid upon the altar’s sun-bleached mosaic tile.

“Gabriel refused me,” he said. “He told me I ought to listen to your counsel more often.”

“Ah, and yet you didn’t.”

Valory’s eyes remained trained on the altar. “I won’t always agree with you. This is a matter we’ve discussed.”

“That doesn’t mean I won’t fight hard for what I believe to be right. It also doesn’t mean I won’t grow angry with you when you make decisions as though I never spoke at all.”

Valory rolled from his knees to sit, finally meeting Arden’s eyes. “Don’t assume I don’t hear you.”

“Sometimes I wonder.”

“Are you still angry with me? I’d have thought this news would please you. Lester remains under arrest but beyond the scope of forceful interrogation, and Edmund won’t return to council until the investigation of his family has concluded. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Arden let out a long sigh, leaning up against the curved wall of the altar. “I’m still frustrated – with this whole situation, with all we must do and endure.” He dropped his head back against the cool mosaic tile. “I’m so damn tired, Val. We’ve been fighting for months: endless battles both mental and physical, with no rest in between. That I got what I wanted is little consolation. I don’t want to fight you, too.”

“Then perhaps we might lay talk of Lester to rest for now – and rest ourselves in the process.”

“You’re not pursuing the matter any further?”

“Without access to a talent of your niece’s caliber, I don’t think I can.”

“And that displeases you.”

Valory shook his head. “I get no pleasure from doing such a thing, even to a weevil like Lester. Am I frustrated that we’ve been stymied, and I must leave our brothers to sort out the truth in my absence? Of course. But there’s a selfish part of me that’s relieved I couldn’t find a way to go through with it.”

“Then I must be a selfish man as well, for I’m glad to let this matter rest and turn my attention to Saria,” Arden said, holding out an arm for Valory to take. He pulled Valory to his feet and had turned to exit the courtyard when Valory stopped with him a hand to the shoulder.

“I’m trying,” he said. Arden cocked his head, trying to parse his meaning. “To listen,” he elaborated. “To give weight to all you say – even when I don’t want to hear your message. It’s not an easy matter, for me.”

“I know.” He reached up, smoothing an errant strand of hair behind Valory’s ear. Here was the face of a man that meant the world to him, and though he wanted to throttle him at times, without him everything felt grey. “Come now, else we’ll be late.”

“Tell me why we have to go to this performance, again?”

“Your brother is the composer’s chief patron – you know that. The piece was written for him about something _we_ did. It’d be a weighty insult if we didn’t show.”

“Are you sure?”

“Very. I think you’ll like it, though; from what I’ve heard it sounds promising – a three-movement work for celesta and two violins.”

Valory wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “I think I’ll like having you explain it to me.”

“Well.” Arden felt a small smile tugging at his lips and shut his eyes, willing the last of his frustration and anger to drain away. They could revisit this later. For now— “The piece is meant to tell the story of the battle at Elona. The first motive you hear is the theme of the Sea-Witch King, and the minor thirds are meant to express . . .”

Valory seemed content to listen without comment or argument, a relaxed set to his brow as they proceeded towards the plaza where the recital would be held.

It was a fine thing, Arden thought, to have such a cherished moment of calm in the midst of all that raged around them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanksthanksthanks to those who've given feedback in the past week or so -- Avanie, curiousbeast, Nemay -- you've been keeping my writing juices flowing which sounds gross but is all kinds of awesome. I hit 50,000 words in March which is kind of insane to think about, and I'm going to try to do it again in April, but thesis, so. No promises.
> 
> And YAY we're leaving Armathia next chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter edited as of 8/27/2015 -- this was the second half of chapter six with two new scenes added: one between Ehrin and Felix, one between Val and Arden.

_The Season of Renewal  
Illán the 8; 2422_

“You are having too much fun with this.”

Ehrin laughed, pushing off the hull with bare feet and swinging forward towards the martingale. “When some girls are little, their fathers rig up a swing on a tree in their garden—”

“And yours put you on the bo’sun’s chair?” Félix asked, sliding down to lie above her in the bowsprit net.

“The lads used to rig it to our anchor burton to heave me aloft. They’d let me swing around on calm days,” she said, kicking her feet. “Hasn’t lost any of its charm, really, though I’m only ever in it to tar or paint or—” she gestured at the pair of deadeyes that hung limp before her.

“This is the last project?”

“In the standing rig, at least. I think Lars wanted to see a few ratlines replaced, but that’s a small job.”

“We have done good work,” Félix said, reaching out to bat at the flying jib halyard from which her chair hung, giving her another push.

“Yeh, and I’m not too proud to say we’ve had an easier time of it with your help.”

“Not I alone. Lars is a good bo’sun.”

Ehrin had always privately judged the mettle of a mate by whether or not he shared a compliment with his subordinates. Félix was their newest addition, and a captain in his own right; hearing him pass praise onto his new crew warmed her. “He is. Both of you could be riggers.”

“I gave it thought, once.”

“Really?” She turned in the chair to look up at him as she swung past. “Instead of a navy man?”

“No. I would not trade the deck for the dockyard, but a man cannot spend his whole life on the water – not in Belen.”

“What then, after retiring from the navy?” she asked.

“I had a—” he paused, searching for the right Oceanic words—“a dream, I think you would call it. Under a unified Madesta, I would not be called to war so often. I would not spend my time at home trying to win allies for my cause. I would be free to do other things.”

“Like boatbuilding.”

“It is a noble occupation.” He shrugged. “I know nothing other than the life of a warrior. I cannot say I would have been content, but it was something.”

She hooked her ankles around the dolphin striker, slowing her swing and peering up at him through the netting. “I had always thought that navy men chose the sea because it beat being an infantryman.”

“Some, yes. Not I. I could not have stepped away from the water.” A mirthless smile pulled at his lips. “It seems I did not have to. I have left the navy, but not the sea.”

“Better to be a mercenary than a merchant.”

“I wanted to fight for Madesta.” He sat up in the bowsprit net, dropping his elbows against one of whisker stays. “This is the best option that I have.”

She pursed her lips, trying to decipher his unreadable expression. “Is it such a bad one?”

“No,” he admitted, features softening. “I still fight for what is right. Zathár will not show any kindness to my people. He will not keep his promise to Madesta.” His eyes lifted to the horizon. “ _Some long months ago Arden told me that there would be no Madesta left to unify if Zathár were to triumph. In that way one might say I still fight for my nation – for its right to exist free from exploitative oversight, whether that come from Dramor, from the demon, or from elsewhere_.”

Ehrin had trouble believing that Félix ever could have enjoyed a quiet life as a rigger – not when he had spent the whole of his life so deeply embroiled in the fight for causes he deemed noble. His pardon from the King had expanded the scope of those causes to include Oceana’s defense, and though Ehrin didn’t think he prized Oceana’s victory as highly as the King might have wished, she knew that _Windjammer_ ’s safety, at least, was a cause that he would champion.

The lads had met news of his pardon with raised mugs and slaps on the back all around. Félix hadn’t been back from the inner city a quarter of an hour before Callum had made his position official, naming him a mate and spreading the ship’s articles out before him to sign. Félix’s written Oceanic reflected his diplomat’s education, and so Ehrin had watched him skim the document, coming to a halt only when he reached the provision on swearing to do no harm to the ship, her captain, or her crew.

Ehrin knew that her father’s reluctance to trust Félix – and his endless entreaties for her to be careful – lay in his fear that, when the time came that _Windjammer_ and Belen were pitted against one another, Félix would refuse to raise arms against his countrymen – even if the lives of his crew were at stake. She had felt cold all over when he hesitated over that provision, wondering whether her father had been right all along. Then Félix’s eyes had left the articles, darting up to rest on her, something powerful and nameless shifting in their depths.

She had held his gaze for the long moment that it fell on her, feeling for all the world that minutes had ticked by in the space of seconds. He broke it only to take up the quill that sat next to the articles, signing his name beneath Niko’s with an elaborate flourish, Belenese script standing stark in fresh ink. The sound of his palm hitting the table as he set the quill back down had been loud in the quiet salon, and something about it had reminded Ehrin of the crack of the tumblers of a lock sliding into place.

Félix was a man who placed no small importance upon honor, and he had sworn – by his name, in his native tongue – to do them no harm. To do _her_ no harm. She knew she shouldn’t find that as terrifying as she did.

“You’ll fight the good fight, Félix. There’s not a soul on this vessel that doubts that, now.”

“Hm.” His expression gentled, his eyes falling on her once more. “It will not be dishonorable to do so upon this deck.”

She knew he’d never make such a claim lightly, but couldn’t resist the quip—“Says he, after rerigging our jibstay to get our old girl looking spry again.”

His lips curled upward. “Then we must finish the job well.” He slipped the lanyard he had brought her out of his belt, passing it down through the bowsprit net. “What is this called, the line that puts tension opposite the jibstay?”

Ehrin began the work of threading the lanyard through the deadeyes, increasing her purchase so she could pull the line taut. “Never heard it called aught but a martingale.”

“That is a strange name.”

“Yeh? We call the bit my feet are on the dolphin striker.”

Félix snorted. “There is sense in that.” He knelt up, shielding his eyes against the sun as they roved from the jib boom up the stay to the topmast. “It must be tighter still, your martingale.”

Ehrin spread her feet against the dolphin striker for leverage and yanked on the lanyard once more. “How’s that?”

Félix scooted forward in the bowsprit net, using his weight to flex the jib boom downward. “Take the slack.”

She had begun to sweat; rigging was awkward work, especially hanging beneath the bowsprit in the chair. A glance at the foredeck confirmed that they were the only ones out in the midday heat. She suspected the lads had all retreated down below to tackle projects that would get them out of the sun. It surprised her that Lars was nowhere to be seen; she never thought she would see the day that he’d leave repairs to the standing rig to a former enemy officer. The show of confidence pleased Félix no small amount, and she was glad for it, but she couldn’t help feeling some danger in the newness of it all. Lars extending such trust to Félix meant that Félix was one of them, now – and if that was the case, things aboard _Windjammer_ were bound to change.

Caution had stayed her hand where Félix was concerned. With his allegiances no longer a matter of speculation, what stood between her and all of the long-suppressed thoughts that rushed at her each time she and Félix were alone together?

Did the new signature on the ship’s articles make the thing growing between them any less inadvisable?

“Make it there.”

Ehrin tied off the lanyard, wiping the sweat from her brow with a satisfied sigh. “Glad that’s done.”

With any of the other lads she would have waited in the chair to be hauled back up past the whisker stays. Something about Félix always seemed to have her bucking convention, however, and instead of asking him to jump back on deck, she found herself standing up on the chair and reaching for the bowsprit net. It was a bit of silliness, really – something she’d later blame on spending hours swinging off the side of the hull in the sun – play that was rewarded by a deep rumble of laughter as she hooked her ankles around the whisker stay.

“That is brave. This harbor water is dirty,” he said, shifting towards the bowsprit to make room for her.

“I’ve got better balance than that,” she scoffed – a half-truth. If she slipped into the water it certainly wouldn’t be the first time, but it’d hurt nothing but her pride.

“A pity. I would never let you forget it, if you fell.”

A strained huff of laughter escaped her lips as she pulled herself up and over the whisker stay, fingers reaching out to scrabble for purchase against the bowsprit. Félix let her flail for a few moments before grabbing her arm and yanking her the rest of the way into the net.

She flopped down next to him. The port bowsprit net was a tight fit for two, and she landed with one of Félix’s elbows dug into her side. “This looked a lot more comfortable when it was just you in here.”

“I should have let you fall,” he grumbled, shuffling until she was tucked beneath his arm. A glint of amusement crossed his features, then. “Do you know what we call this in Belen?”

“The bowsprit net?”

“We call it a ‘sailor-strainer’.”

Ehrin couldn’t help but picture a bunch of deckhands being wrung out like noodles in a colander and grinned, rolling over to her side to look up at him. “S’accurate, yeh?”

“Hm.” He shifted beneath her, letting her tuck her cheek just against his shoulder. “When I was not yet an officer, there were some games I would play with the other deckhands after a night of shore leave. We would take the sailor who slept hard from drink and carry him to the net. Sometimes he would startle in the morning and fall straight through to the water.”

Ehrin let out a surprised laugh, trying to imagine a young Félix dragging a drunken sailor up the foredeck of a Belenese warship. She glanced up to see an answering smile spread across his face and her thoughts slid sideways; this was dangerous – this playful, personable side of a man she already found herself drawn to.

Félix’s name was on the ship’s articles and now she was allowed to think of him this way – to want him this way – and it frightened her more than the thought of him turning back to Belen. In a handful of weeks her chief worry had gone from Félix’s intentions towards her ship and crew to Félix’s intentions towards her.

What did he see when he looked at her? A lowborn foreigner? A former captor? A friend? And if she wasn’t alone in feeling this _thing_ that grew ever-stronger between them, was she alone in depth of sentiment? He was the brother of the Lord of Belen, and she a lowborn mercenary sailor with negligible marriage prospects. It was hard to imagine that he would pursue her in any serious way.

Félix had proven himself the sort of man she was proud to know, to work beside, to bring before her father and her crew. The thought that this regard wouldn’t be returned – that she was no more than a convenient option for him, one he would never bring before his own family – stung. Yet that didn’t change the fact that she wanted – oh, how she _wanted_.

She only hoped that she would have the strength of will to turn him down if he were to offer her less than what she was offering him in turn. She never wanted to become the sort of woman who would grow so desperate for the affection of one man that she would be willing to take his scraps.

Ehrin swallowed hard, scrambling to force her mind back to the topic at hand before he realized that it was off elsewhere. “I’ve pulled a few over on the lads in my day.”

“This does not surprise me, _my little warrior_.”

She knew the diminutive wasn’t meant as an insult, but in wake of everything it still served to make her bristle. “I’m not so little.”

“Hm.” He cast a significant glance down the net; his form dwarfed hers.

“That’s not my whole measure. I want to be more than that – a _great_ warrior, a _great_ sailor, a _great_ woman – not a little one.” Not the sort Félix could overlook; not the sort who would be content with whatever he would see fit to give, and demand nothing for herself.

A crease formed between Félix’s brows. “You are little in size, but that is all that is little about you. It was not meant as an insult. To say ‘ _little one_ ’ in Belenese—” His eyes slid away from hers. “It is a mark of affection. I did not think you heard otherwise. I will stop, if you wish it.”

Ehrin regretted her words immediately. “No, no – I like it. I don’t know why I said that, I just—”

“ _One does not have to be large of stature to do great things. It is what a man does that makes him giant_.” The arm that wrapped around her shoulders pulled her in tight to his side. “ _In many ways you are larger than me_. _Be assured, though – you are not the only one who believes they must push themselves to achieve greatness._ ”

“Not unique to those of us with certain _short_ comings?” she muttered. Her height was the least of her concerns, truth be told, but the thought of revealing her true worries to Félix was mortifying.

He snorted. “Not at all.”

“Thanks, Félix.” She rolled away from him, contemplating the easiest way to pull herself out of the bowsprit net.

“Why do you Oceanic thank those who speak truth?” he groused. He sat up, joints popping, and boosted himself up onto the jib boom. Once again he held a hand her way, pulling her up to her feet and letting her pick her way onto the foredeck in front of him.

“C’mon,” she said as her feet touched teak once more, “let’s see what the lads are up to. Five royals says one of ‘em is in my larder as we speak.”

“I don’t think so.”

She nudged him with an elbow. “Not a betting man?”

“Hm,” he grunted, falling into step beside her with amusement curling his lips. “I do not make bets unless I think I can win.”

…

“Are you certain, Lady Agatha?” Miran asked, frowning as she looped the fine silk sling over her shoulders.

“There isn’t any shade at the ring,” Verne added.

“I miss watching you cross swords with the King,” she said. “You’re both very good, and besides, I think little Alistair would like to see his father. Wouldn’t you, sweet thing?” The wet nurse handed the burbling infant to his mother, who placed a kiss upon his brow before nesting him within the bright blue fabric of the sling.

“The baby can travel so far?” Verne asked the wet nurse.

“Oh yes, my Lord. At this age they’re very portable.”

“Very well – if this is what you wish, my dear. But please, if you grow tired, don’t stay for my sake.”

Agatha offered up a wide smile, stretching up on her tip-toes to press a kiss to her husband’s cheek. “I’ll be cheering you on in silence, for I daresay it’s poor form to heckle the King.”

“I should think so,” Verne replied, offering his arm. “Father?”

“Let’s.” Miran kept an expression of indifference upon his face, knowing that if he said no more his son wouldn’t pick up on the disharmony between word and deed. He saw so much of himself in Verne. To watch him dote upon his wife and son, to see that regard returned tenfold—

In his heart of hearts he was glad for his son, but there was a sore ache that came from knowing that he, too, could have had the sort of life that Verne had carved out for himself. Persephone seemed to think that he could make amends, and yet—

“Are you coming, father?” Verne asked, glancing over a shoulder.

“Of course,” he said, hastening to catch them as they descended the steps of the House of Stewards and began the walk across the plaza towards the inner city gates.

The city was bright in the early afternoon sun. Miran hated that his vision had weakened with age, eyes growing sensitive to the glare of the sun off whitewashed stone, but refused to acknowledge any hardship when asked why he was squinting. He was no longer young, perhaps, but he wouldn’t let anyone take him for a doddering old man.

It was a nice change to escape the inner city for the uppermost levels of the fort. It had been years since he had wielded a weapon within the rings himself, of course, but he had taken to accompanying Verne on his ever-more-frequent excursions. His son had stayed in fighting form long after his military service ended, though in the past he had done so by inviting opponents into the private courtyard of the House of Stewards. These days he and the King both fought in the ring where any could see, a concession to the necessity of bolstering the morale of Armathia’s fighting men, all of whom flocked to the fort to watch them spar.

Miran followed Verne and Agatha through the arches to the rings, which boasted an aerial view of the harbor and bay beyond. He had no eyes for picturesque scenery, however, for the King and Regent were already at arms before them, surrounded by guards and navy men who were titillated by such a show. The King’s form was excellent as always, but Miran couldn’t deny that the Regent had kept himself in far better fighting shape over the years; it was only Valory’s weakened state recovering from injury that made them an even match.

After all, they hadn’t expected that war would ever again come to Armathia.

The crowd parted to let them through, Agatha’s wet nurse brandishing a parasol like a shield as they took their rightful place up against the fence. With a start, Miran realized that his youngest son was present as well, enjoying a rare afternoon free of council obligations.

“Well brother, I might have expected meeting you here,” Verne said.

Arden turned from the rail, smiling and beckoning them forward to watch at his side. He was flanked by two of the Regent’s men – the former Dramorian and the Empath. “I’m waiting my turn,” he said. “I’d clasp your arm, but—”

He held a dripping mango in his right hand, from which he took another bite. Miran noted that he wore full armament: a leather breastplate and cowl that bore his crest, a wide belt with a dulled practice blade in its scabbard, a rig knife and marlinspike secured in a simple leather pouch on his right hip. But for the unmistakable emblem spreading over the left side of his chest he appeared as a common sailor, hair hanging loose, a casual lilt to his tone.

“No need,” Verne said, holding up his hands.

“Father,” Arden continued, a deferent nod in his direction. “Agatha. I’m surprised to see you here – is that Alistair?”

She flashed him a smile, pulling the fabric aside to let him have a peek within the sling. “It is indeed.”

“Well hello, little man,” Arden murmured, “are you going to be a fine warrior like your father?”

“Someday, perhaps. I suppose he’s too small to know what’s going on around him, but I thought I’d bring him anyway. Turns out he fell asleep as soon as I tucked him in here.”

“Look at him, he’s like Verne in miniature – right down to the line of his little mouth.”

“Uncanny, isn’t it?” she smiled. “Though I think he’ll have my eyes.”

“He’ll be a handsome devil, no doubt. Did Fiona not accompany you? I don’t see the two of you without her much these days.”

“I asked her along, but she went to the cathedral instead. I don’t think she wanted to see the fighting.”

Arden’s expression twisted in sympathy. “Of course.”

Around them the crowd let out a hesitant cheer; the King had pressed through the Regent’s guard to land a blow. The Regent blocked it with a vambrace, but it remained a point in favor of the King’s swordsmanship. Miran noted with some amusement that the gathered crowd was as unsure of who to root for as Agatha had been.

“Lieutenant Imran,” Verne said, stepping up to the rail, “how does my Lord look?”

Imran’s braid swung around behind his head as he turned Verne’s way. “I do not want to give offense, my Lord.”

“You think it a poor showing?”

Arden smiled around a bite of his mango. “The Lieutenant is an accomplished swordsman, but one might say his commentary on the performance of others makes up in honesty what it lacks in tact.”

“I see.” Verne turned towards the ring where the King had begun losing ground to the Regent once more. “I wonder whether the Regent should be in the ring while his arm remains braced.”

Arden noticed the pointed glance in his direction. “I’m not going to fight him on it. I’ve learned to pick my battles.”

Imran let out a snort of amusement. “You learn fast.” He added a snatch of Dramorian under his breath; Miran thought he caught the words ‘man-ogre’, ‘city’, and ‘impossible’, but Dramorian had never been his strong suit.

“Thank the Gods we leave in two days’ time, yeh?” Arden responded.

The crowd made another hushed noise, falling quiet as the Regent disarmed the King with a final, vicious stroke of his broadsword. Those assembled gave a collective sigh of relief as Siath threw up his hands in mock-outrage, laughing,

“By the Gods, what a mess – bested by my baby brother!”

“ _Must_ you call me that?”

Miran caught the speculative glance that Verne cast towards Arden. “What do you think, brother? Do you believe you’ll have as much luck as your Regent?”

Arden bared his teeth in a wolf’s smile. “Is that a challenge?”

“Will you rise to it?”

“Oh, absolutely.” He hopped the fence in a single motion, tossing the pit of his mango into the dirt. “It’s a shame your firstborn son will have to watch his father’s defeat—”

Verne ducked between the rails, continuing their wordplay as he approached. “Those are big words for a little brother.”

Miran laid his hands on the rail before him, fingers tightening with anticipation as his sons drew their weapons and bowed, the wild cheers of the crowd echoing around them. Though he had come with the intention of watching Verne fight, Miran found his attention fixed upon Arden instead. His eyes fell first upon Arden’s free hand, which drew a knife as he and Verne circled around one another, feeling out weaknesses and strengths. With a deft twist he spun it around his fingers before advancing, metal meeting metal for the first time.

Miran had never seen his youngest son fight, though in the past he had received reports aplenty regarding his lack of aptitude in the ring. He supposed that, if any of the men around the ring had served in the cavalry beside his son, they wouldn’t recognize him now.

The sight of Verne and Arden crossing swords for the first time since childhood made thoughts of Conrad rise up unbidden. Miran shut his eyes, permitting himself the luxury of imagining that Conrad was there beside him – just for a moment – the jolly quips and jibes for which he’d been known accompanying each of his brothers’ parries and thrusts. The idle fantasy made his throat burn and his eyes sting, and he abandoned it as soon as it came. Remembrance was always due, but Conrad would not want him to grieve. Opening his eyes, he turned his attention back to the ring.

He focused upon Verne’s refined movements and precise strikes, the fineness of which reflected the tutelage of the best swordsmen Armathia had to offer. It was jarring to watch him match up against Arden, who fought in that simple, aggressive way that common sailors did. Verne’s weaponry gave him a longer reach, but Arden was quick with his cutlass and accustomed to his weapon in a way that had Verne off-balance from the start.

“Would you pass that jug?” Siath asked, approaching with Valory at his side, words labored with exertion.

Valory gave an out-of-breath laugh before taking another swig from the jug of water. “To the victor goes the spoils—”

Miran supposed that they had been in the ring for some time before he arrived; both men were drenched in sweat, strands of hair stuck to their necks and foreheads. Valory had his arm back in the sling more out of deference to the Master Healer’s orders than due to any real need. From their good cheer, Miran figured that both were pleased with their performance that afternoon.

“Look at _that_ ,” Siath said, gesturing back to the ring.

Verne had caught Arden off-balance and forced his cutlass away from his body at an awkward angle. Not to be beat Arden spun, swapping hands to hold his cutlass with his left and knife with his right. The change allowed him to yank Verne’s blade to the side, forcing him to disengage. He met a handful of Verne’s succeeding strikes left-handed before swapping back, causing the crowd to stomp their feet in approval.

“That’s a fancy new trick,” the Empath said, nudging Lieutenant Imran.

“He has kept up his work with the twin blades. It has served him,” Imran replied.

“I hadn’t known you were still sparring,” Valory admitted.

“He was – how do you say – rusted? It has been long since we met in the ring. He is no master of the twin blades, but they have improved his work with his sailor’s weapon.”

“I see you watched our match as well. What were your thoughts?”

“You favor your left side. It makes you even sloppier than usual.”

Miran couldn’t imagine that Valory would abide such disrespect from his Lieutenant, and was surprised to hear another bark of amusement leave Valory’s lips as he passed the jug of water to his brother. “I know you have no love lost for my form, but it’s effective, isn’t it?”

“You move like a drunken bear.”

“A ferocious animal, by all accounts.”

“I did not say you fought poorly. I only said it was ugly.”

Beyond them Arden had begun gaining ground, forcing Verne to retreat backwards across the ring. Miran found his attention split between his sons and the conversation continuing beside him as the King spoke once more.

“I’m afraid to hear what you have to say about my form, Lieutenant.”

The Lieutenant cast a wary glance in the King’s direction. “Do you ask my opinion, my Lord?”

“I’d have it unfettered, if you please.”

“My Lord you are a strong opponent, but you are not in practice,” Imran said. At the King’s encouraging smile, he continued, “Your front foot is sloppy. You do not lead with strength . . .”

Miran listened with half an ear as the Lieutenant dissected the King’s form in increasingly disputatious detail, hoping all the while that none who surrounded them listened too closely. He knew that the King wouldn’t think about how it might look to others to have a former Dramorian school him so, and hoped that the performance he had put in that afternoon would be enough to stay the worries of any who wondered how so many hours spent indoors might have impacted the King’s ability to win a fight.

Eramen had been a warrior King of great skill. It was vital that Siath stand in his image with the Reckoning upon them.

As the crowd hushed Miran devoted his full attention to the ring where Verne was again struggling to keep up with Arden’s advance. They were so unalike – in form, in dress, in expression – yet for all of that it was plain that they were brothers. Miran felt as though his formalwear had somehow shrunk a size too small; something constricted around his ribs as he watched his sons match up against one another, play-fighting as they hadn’t done since they were in the nursery, before everything had somehow gone awry.

He watched as Arden finally found a way around Verne’s defense, wresting his blade out of his grip to disarm him. He punched his fist in the air with a breathless laugh, a brilliant smile lighting his features at his victory.

“Damn, Val,” Siath whistled, “your Steward can fight.”

Miran straightened in his place at the rail, pride bursting within him – pride that he knew he had no right to feel, let alone express.

…

It had been many long months since Valory last worked the room at a state dinner with his Steward at his side, and even longer since he had done so without Sybina on his other arm. Thoughts of his wife still sent darts of guilt skittering through his gut – guilt which he ruthlessly suppressed in favor of focusing upon the matters at hand. State dinners had always demanded his full attention and best behavior; this night was no exception. It was important that he have the support of Armathia’s upper echelons, and if that meant making small talk and chatting politics over a glass of Ithakan wine, then so be it.

Politicking wasn’t Valory’s favorite pastime – no one would ever accuse him of such – but there was something to be said for that evening’s circumstances. All around him diplomats and noblemen alike were coming together to form and strengthen alliances, making slow progress through the hall with their wives on their arms. Valory had no one on his arm but he didn’t walk alone, and the symmetry pleased him. It wasn’t unusual for the Regent and Steward to remain side-by-side at state events – they would do so even if both of them were married – but although their united presence was expected to the point of being routine, something about greeting other couples alongside his man sat proud within Valory’s chest. It was a quiet, cryptic declaration that none of the others would ever read into, let alone notice.

“Where to next?” Arden leaned in, backs of their hands brushing as they turned away from a handful of Kythrian representatives. Valory was close enough to smell the soap he’d used to wash his hair that afternoon, and was struck by an overwhelming urge to kiss him.

“Good evening, my Lord Regent, Lord Steward Arden.”

Only years in the field kept Valory from starting and pulling away from Arden at the interruption; his thoughts may have been unfit to share with the court, but he knew that his expression betrayed none of them.

“Lord Carlisle,” he greeted, watching the gears in Arden’s mind turn as he worked out the position of the dignitary before them.

“I’m glad to get a moment of your time, my Lords,” Carlisle said. “There’s a matter of some delicacy I was hoping to discuss.”

Carlisle was a diplomat who worked under Lester, a friend and ally of his who had undertaken several assignments along the border when peacekeeping efforts became necessary. “I assume you’re speaking of Lord Lester’s imprisonment,” Valory said. Arden shot him a sharp look.

“I am, my Lord. I know that the order was given by the King himself, and though I’d never presume to speak ill of his decisions, I can’t help but wonder whether there has been some sort of mistake.”

Anger washed through Valory, hot and heavy at the thought that a man of Carlisle’s station would try to drive a wedge between he and his brother – all in the name of a traitor to the crown. “Tell me Lord Carlisle, do you hold your loyalty to Lester above your loyalty to the King?”

“Not at all my Lord,” Carlisle protested, aghast. “But I am unable to conceive of what Lord Lester could have done to merit such treatment.”

Valory narrowed his eyes. “Is treason and conspiracy not enough?” As he spoke, Arden’s ankle knocked up against his. The nudge was subtle enough that Arden could have passed it off as an accident had Carlisle seen, but Valory knew it was anything but; he heard Arden’s message as if it had been spoken aloud: _stop talking, you’re making matters worse_.

Valory had heard himself described as ‘intractable’ before and hadn’t taken it as an insult; it was part of what made him good at what he did. It was no surprise, then, that he bristled at Arden’s request. Carlisle was an ally of Lester’s, and any ally of Lester’s fell under suspicion as a possible agent of Zathár. That the man would have the cheek to challenge Siath’s orders made Valory’s blood run hot.

He opened his mouth to speak again and received another knock to the ankle for his efforts. Respect for his Steward had him swallowing down his frustration for long enough to give greater consideration to what he had meant to say. As he thought through the probable repercussions of incautious words, he was forced to admit that Arden might have a point. He was in no place to be talking careful politics with a Borderland diplomat – not unless he wanted to win his brother courtly enemies.

“I understand that this comes as a surprise to you, Lord Carlisle,” Arden said, wearing an expression of gentle understanding designed to smooth ruffled feathers. “It came as a surprise to us as well. I’m happy to discuss the details of Lester’s incarceration with you in private, but I’m afraid our current surroundings are unsuited to divulging the details of state affairs.”

Carlisle proved unwilling to let the matter lie. Valory forced himself not to react to the man’s protests, remaining silent as Arden handled the discussion. Arden’s expression was one of unreadable politeness, perfect turns of phrase designed to compliment Carlisle’s position without giving an inch. Valory grudgingly admitted that there was a reason men of his House so often stepped back and let their Stewards take care of business in their stead; Arden’s careful diplomacy was a feat Valory knew himself incapable of at present.

He and Carlisle’s wife followed the conversation as Arden turned it away from Lester and onto Carlisle’s own work at the Border, offering up occasional commentary in between Carlisle’s more drawn-out explanations. For the most part Valory remained silent, watching Arden push and pull the conversation in the direction he sought with Carlisle none the wiser. He no longer had to navigate the murky waters of state affairs on his own, and he supposed that was a blessing for which he should show more gratitude.

As Arden led Carlisle through diplomatic niceties Valory lost the thread of conversation entirely, eyes resting on his Steward as he spoke. He was handsome in profile, well-groomed for the dinner, hair pulled back into a neat queue. Valory preferred it when it hung loose, waves of copper shorn shorter than the fashion, tucking into the back of his collar. At least this way he could rest his eyes on the nape of Arden’s neck, tracing the marks the Sea Witch King left there with his eyes. A smug sort of satisfaction curled in his stomach as he looked his fill. He was fortunate to have won the loyalty of such a man. Carlisle may have had a doting wife upon his arm, but Valory had his man at his side – a warrior, a sailor, a brilliant son of Drand. For the second tie that night he was taken by the urge to press his lips to Arden’s skin, eyes on them be damned.

He forced his attention back onto Carlisle. Such impulses were unwise.

His timing was impeccable; the conversation had come to a close, and he managed to issue the requisite polite words of parting without prompting. As Carlisle and his wife wandered off towards a throng of Midland representatives at the other side of the hall Arden’s attention fell upon him, head bent his way once more.

“Where was your mind?” he asked.

Valory supposed he should have known better than to think his Steward wouldn’t see his distraction. He considered telling Arden precisely where his mind had been, but suspected Arden wouldn’t be pleased with such a response and refrained. “I find Carlisle’s motives suspect.”

“Self-preservation and self-interest?”

His voice dropped to a near-whisper. “He’s trying to protect an agent of Zathár.”

“We don’t know that’s where Lester’s loyalties truly lie.”

“Arden.”

Arden let out a frustrated noise, hand running through his hair to muss his queue. “I admit that Lester’s duplicity seems more likely than any other explanation for what we’ve seen, but we have no proof.”

“Carlisle’s behavior had my hackles up.”

“Yes, I could see that,” Arden gave him a wry look. “I’ll tell my brother as much, if it’d please you, but after that you must let this go.”

Valory ground his teeth. “We’re leaving Lester behind, with allies and supporters of his walking free to wreak havoc within Armathia’s walls. Don’t grudge me the desire to make things easier on my brother.”

“Your brother is a king of men; he can handle the likes of Lester. This isn’t our fight anymore. We must keep our focus where it’s needed, and that’s on the trip to Saria.”

Valory lacked the words to express the frustrated rage he felt at being made so impotent in his own city, and his guilt over leaving Siath to experience the same in his absence. Despite his inability to put word to thought Arden must have read something of his mood in his countenance, for a hand landed on his elbow to guide him away from the crowded hall and towards the doors to the balcony. Arden’s head bent towards his as they reached the stone balustrade, and though they hadn’t been alone when they stepped out of the great hall, the sight of the Regent and Steward in conference had the others edging away to give them due privacy.

“Your mind has been elsewhere tonight,” Arden murmured, turning him out to face the dark waters of Armathia’s harbor. “I’m hardly one to begrudge you a spot of distraction, but I hope this proves the exception rather than the rule. I’m here to carry your weight when you’re not on form, Val, but I _need_ you on form.”

There were layers to a turn of phrase like ‘ _I need you_ ’, and Valory knew that such need didn’t fall in the political arena alone. Silver-threaded embroidery scratched against his palm as his hand landed upon Arden’s shoulder. “What weighs on you?”

At first silence was his response; the stillness of Arden’s face in profile, the music of insects and nightbirds, the distant rumble of waves breaking on Armathia’s shoreline. Arden’s eyes were fixed upon the harbor and after a moment Valory realized that he was searching out _Windjammer_ ’s deck lights.

“Would you rather we were down on Tavern Row? I’d make an escape if I could,” Valory guessed.

“No, actually.” Arden turned towards him, expression unreadable in the dark. “Nothing so mundane. My thoughts are less preoccupied with revelry than they are with all that comes afterward.”

“Saria?”

“The passage,” Arden clarified.

“Callum wouldn’t have volunteered his vessel if he didn’t think she could make the crossing,” Valory reasoned.

“ _Windjammer_ is capable of the crossing, yes – but it will be a hard one, and there are dangers we may face that even she can’t master. There are myths of terrible squalls that can blow a ship flat in minutes, and old sailor’s tales that say that the channel is cursed. I’m not one to believe in fairy stories, but no man of science has ever been able to explain why so many vessels disappear between Halen and Saria – and that’s saying nothing of creatures or agents of Zathár.”

“So is your worry sailor’s intuition, or—”

Arden’s eyes dropped to his talisman. “I’ve told you I’m not much of a Seer. I couldn’t say. But my fears for _Windjammer_ ’s safety are no more baseless than are your fears for the success of this treaty.”

“What can I say, then?”

“To allay them?” Arden’s lips curled in a facsimile of a smile. “I’d rather you didn’t. Entering Ranael’s domain without a healthy dose of fear would be foolish.”

“I know you too well to fall for that fine bit of bush-beating, Steward-mine.”

Arden’s smile turned genuine then, a flash of teeth in the moonlight. “Very well. Then I’ll say this much: the thought of the dangers that lie ahead of _Windjammer_ worry me not only as a sailor, but as a Steward.” He paused, eyes slipping back to the warm light of the hall as he chose his words. “I know that city living grates on you, but right now I’m not unhappy to be here.”

“You’d rather not depart?” Valory hazarded.

“Not under these circumstances, perhaps, but I’m a sailor at heart and would soon want to be on my way. No, I mean to say that this time, being here—” He gestured back to the hall, then out at the bay where _Windjammer_ sat snug in her dock slip. “Within sight, at this very moment, is everyone and everything I’ve ever loved. My family, my crew, my people…”

“This is what we will lose, should _Windjammer_ not survive the crossing,” Valory completed.

“Everything.”

Valory had to concede the point. There was something terrifying about having so many that were so dear to him all within the boundaries of Armathia’s walls. “And you’re worried that Callum may have bit off more than he can chew?”

“I think I’m starting to see the obstacles that stand before us more clearly now that they’re no longer so distant.” His eyes met Val’s once more, more grey than green in the moonlight. “This is what we’re fighting for. If we fail—”

“Then we cannot fail.”

Arden’s jaw tightened. “Exactly,” he said, fingers circling around Valory’s still-braced forearm. “We cannot fail. Not this time.”

…

A week in Armathia had passed in the blink of an eye, and Arden was grateful as ever that his belongings remained in his cabin aboard _Windjammer_ , for he couldn’t imagine attending to all of his political and social obligations while still having time to pack. It had been a busy week – hectic even – and he regretted not having enough time to spend with his nieces. The least he could do, he knew, was bid each of them a proper goodbye; a matter he intended upon as soon as he could find any of them.

He stumbled upon Alma in the courtyard of the House of Stewards, sitting upon a bench with a girl he had assumed was Alicia at first glance, only to realize that the girl’s skin was dark where Alicia’s was light. Her features were familiar, and it was only after stopping and staring for a long moment that he saw the resemblance. This was Lord Alec’s daughter.

She sat in stark contrast with Alma, whose unkempt, mousy locks and freckles betrayed her Northern heritage. One of her lace cuffs was torn, and a splatter stain – tea or coffee – crept up the opposite sleeve. She had a slate upon her knees and was scribbling with chalk, explaining some facet of geometry to her companion. With dawning comprehension, Arden realized that Alec’s daughter, whose name he couldn’t remember, had her attention fixed not upon the sums, but upon Alma.

 _Gods_ , he thought, watching as the girl’s hand landed upon Alma’s, pressing their palms together, _they may be Conrad’s daughters, but they have my propensity for finding trouble_.

“Uncle?”

A soft touch landed upon his elbow and he turned to see Fiona standing beside him. “I was just looking for you,” he said.

“I thought you were busy getting ready for the morrow.”

“Not too busy to seek you out before the morning’s procession. The docks are no place to say our goodbyes. Come, if you’re not required elsewhere – let’s find somewhere to sit.”

He offered an arm and they meandered further into the courtyard, leaving Alma and her attentive friend in peace for the time being. They wound up seated in soft grass beneath a mango tree, boughs laden with still-ripening fruit hanging down around their heads.

“I regret not having more time to spend with you,” he said without preamble as she arranged her skirts around her ankles.

“You’re a busy man. I know that. Besides, I have little news to share these days.”

“That doesn’t mean I won’t enjoy your company. Did you like the book you borrowed? I saw it returned in favor of another a day past.”

She kept her eyes trained on the grass, running her fingers through it as she spoke. “It had a pleasant ending as I requested. It’s nice to dwell in fanciful worlds, if only for a while.”

“I was surprised to find that you had little else to occupy you.” Arden searched her features for any reaction to his words, but she remained impassive. “I had thought you would sit in on council meetings.”

“Because I was acting viceroy for a time?”

“You were the crown’s only voice in Anaphe. I would have expected you to step into a role as Anaphe’s representative in Armathian court.”

She shrugged. “I only took on my father’s title because I didn’t trust the motives of the others who longed for it.”

“And you were right, based on what I’ve heard about Samir.”

“As you say, Uncle. But my time of service has ended.”

“Do you think you’re not needed?”

She plucked at a blade of grass, balling it up between her fingers. “I had wondered, at first, whether I would sit with Jarmon when he and some of the others were invited into council. No such offer was extended to me. I think Uncle Verne thought I was presumptuous to ask about it.”

Arden narrowed his eyes. “Did he say as much?”

“No, but he couldn’t see why I would want to trouble myself with such matters.” She gestured around the quiet courtyard. “This is my lot, now.”

“I won’t hear such talk.”

The vehemence in his tone must have startled her, for her eyes snapped up to his face. “Why?”

“Do you wish to be barred from the chamber where decisions are made regarding the welfare of your people? Doesn’t it gall you that such decisions would be made without consulting you, Anaphe’s viceroy, the woman who convinced the Regent to evacuate the lowlands and save the lives of all the men and women camped outside our city walls?”

Her eyes dropped back down to the grass once more. “Why would men like the King and High Steward be interested in hearing what I had to say on the matter? Why wouldn’t they disregard my words?”

Arden swallowed around the constriction in his breast. “What would make you think that?”

“I raised my concerns with grandfather and Uncle Verne just before you arrived. I keep looking down at the tents and wagons pressed up against our walls, and I wonder whether my people are any safer or happier here than they were in Anaphe. How can we protect them? How can we provide for them? Grandfather said the matter was being looked into and Uncle Verne said he had delegated their care to another councilor so I let it lie, but it doesn’t seem to me that anything’s been done.”

“How can you doubt the importance of your voice after all you’ve said? They’re your people. Who else would have their best interests in mind?”

A crease appeared between Fiona’s brows. “But—Uncle Verne is the High Steward, and then there’s the King, and of course the Regent—”

“Great men.”

“Yes,” she agreed with a fervent nod. “They are, so I don’t see what I could—”

“Great men are not always good ones, Fiona. Though I don’t doubt the goodness of our leaders’ intentions, you must remember that they aren’t beyond reproach merely because of the circumstances of their birth.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Your people are not their highest priority. That is why the council needs you: because _you_ are the one who will fight for them,” Arden stressed. “Unless, of course, that’s a role you’ve willingly given up. I won’t grudge you that decision. Life is not easy for leaders of men.”

“It was different in Anaphe,” she insisted. “Who am I to step into the Armathian council and tell them how to allocate their resources?”

“Do you think I’ve never asked myself the same question?”

“You? Uncle?”

He flicked at the silver pendant that hung next to his talisman. “I often wonder whether I’m worthy of the position that has been accorded to me. But whenever I ask myself ‘ _who am I, to speak before Oceana’s highest council?’_ I must remember that I am Arden bar Miran, and I am the only man who can see through my eyes. My perspective is an ability that no other man or woman on the Eastern Shores can claim.”

Fiona’s teeth worried at her lower lip. “You said something similar when I learned that the Regent didn’t intend to take the staff from me.”

“Time has only made my words ring truer, or so it seems. Why should you be heard by the council? Because you have done more for the people of Anaphe than the King – and I’d wager you better know how to care for them than he does.”

“But I’m—” She gestured down at her skirts.

“You’ve met Miss Ehrin, haven’t you?” At her nod, he continued, “You must understand: I watched Ehrin grown from a little girl into a fierce sailor. If I once had any notions about the abilities of those born wearing skirts, well – knowing the two of you has disabused me of them.”

“You are alone in that, I fear.”

“Less alone than you might think. Remember that you are a daughter of the House of Stewards, and you remain Anaphe’s acting viceroy until the staff is taken from your hands. You have great standing, and great power,” he insisted. “You must use it.”

She opened and shut her mouth a few times. “It would be an honor if, one day, someone might compare me to the Queen.”

“She’s a mighty woman. As are you.”

“Yet the Queen had a city and a nation over which to preside when King Adrianth passed.” Her voice grew tight. “What do I have? Anaphe is gone.”

Arden pressed her hand. “Your home is more than just a place, Fi.”

The pat of sandals upon the cobbles alerted them to the approach of another. Sure enough a shadow fell upon them as Miran appeared around a tall, flowering hedge. Arden and Fiona hastened to get to their feet and call their greetings. Arden could see just now nervous she was around her grandfather, for no sooner had Miran arrived than Fiona begged leave of their company, citing some previously-unmentioned engagement for which she was already late.

“You’ve given me much to think about, Uncle. Thank you,” she said, pressing his hand as she departed.

“I hope you consider it.”

She edged towards the path. “Of course. Will I see you at the evening meal?”

“You will. Now go, else you’ll be late.”

She flashed him a grateful smile before disappearing amongst the hedges.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say she was running from my company,” Miran observed.

“She thinks you high and noble. It sets her ill at ease.”

His shoulders drew up tight as his father’s shrewd stare fell upon him. “And your unease? Is it from the same source? Or do you think me quite the opposite?”

“What you call unease I would call preparedness. Words of one kind from your lips only indicate that unkind words are soon to follow,” Arden ground out.

Miran’s jaw tightened. “I have wronged you. I know that.”

Arden regarded his father through eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I would know why you’ve sought me out.”

“For the same reason that you found some time to speak with your nieces; the procession is a poor place to exchange words of parting. I wanted to wish you a successful journey and a safe return.”

It was a gentler sentiment than he was accustomed to hearing from his father, and it was almost worse to know that his father had withheld kind words from him for so long than to think his father incapable of speaking kind words at all.

“I hope for much of the same.”

Miran gave a jerky nod. “Arden—” he began, then halted.

“If it’s all the same to you, father, I’ve not yet spoken to Alicia or Alma, and would like to do so before the meal.”

“I’ll not keep you. I only—” the set to his brow grew still more severe. “I only wished to express this to you, before your departure: that I am not a man without regrets. I would make amends for past misdeeds, if I could.”

It was strange, to hear the words he had once longed for fall from his father’s lips. He had waited for so long that the words themselves almost lacked meaning, and for a brief moment Arden felt empty, felt the traitorous impulse to laugh at the absurdity of the Gods’ propensity for granting their children what they wanted the moment they no longer sought it.

That brief moment of levity was soon consumed by a wave of anger. All the long years of his childhood – the months when his second talent developed, the words they exchanged when he was sent to the Border – all of that had weighed upon him for the better part of two decades. Did his father wish to erase scores of such memories at his own convenience, to apologize now that it suited him to do so, now that no effort or work was involved?

How cruel of him, to expect forgiveness on such terms, when he still had no way of conceiving the magnitude of the hurt that he had dealt.

How selfish, to call Arden ‘son’ and speak of pride now that Arden was the Regent’s Steward and a decorated warrior. Where was he when Arden was none of those things, when he had most needed a father?

Arden’s lips pulled taut in a diplomat’s smile. “You may do whatever suits you,” he said, voice sounding rough to his own ears. “I will see you at the dinner table.”

He didn’t await a reply.

…

While the King’s rooms looked out towards the sea, the Regent’s had a sweeping view of the plain and scattered settlements beyond. Outside the city walls Valory could see the makeshift sprawl of Anaphe’s refugees, tents and wagons and bedsheets spread out in a patchwork of colors and textures that warded against the elements. Some had found day work tending to the newly-sown fields that stretched across the plain, but most remained within the camp, its edges ever-widening as more people arrived every day.

These were the people who would suffer the most when the demon marched upon their city, and he knew not what to do about it. He didn’t know where they would go, or how to defend them. He couldn’t imagine how they would feed so many mouths. It weighed on him, to see his people suffer and have no answer for how to help them, to be at a loss for how to protect the lives he was charged to defend.

It was easy to forget, at times – to think only of his family and loved ones. Yet when the demon marched upon their shores, it would be these people before him who would have nowhere to go to escape the creatures that came their way.

It was a heavy thought. This was the price that his people had paid for his failure, and would pay once more if he couldn’t return from Saria with aid.

“You look pensive, darling.”

He turned to see his mother and brother appear in the doorway to the balcony. He wondered how long they had stood there.

“Thinking about the morrow’s procession and departure,” he replied. If they knew it for a half-truth, they said nothing.

Persephone reached for him, drawing him into a tight embrace. He laid his head upon her shoulder, memories of doing so as a little boy springing to his mind unbidden. “We came to bid you a safe journey. You’ll be missed,” she murmured, stroking a hand through his hair.

“Be well in my absence,” he entreated, turning towards Siath as his mother released him.

“Baby brother.” Siath only laughed at the frustrated noise Valory made in response, pulling him in and ruffling his hair. “I see the Master Healer has finally given you leave to take off your brace. How are you feeling?”

“No different, though there’s a part of me that can tell that the bone has regained its strength. My arm, however . . .” He extended his forearms for them to see, the muscle of his left having shrunken with disuse. “I should be grateful that the skill of Little and the Master Healer shortened my recovery by a month, but I have much to make up for.”

“And yet you still best me in the ring,” Siath sighed. “I had better begin training in earnest.”

“You have time,” Valory said, eyes drawn back out to the horizon, “or so we hope.”

“Fanán, the High Priest said – or perhaps longer, if we’re fortunate.”

Persephone laid a hand upon his arm. “You made a good point the other day: you didn’t see the demon in Anaphe.”

“That was no more than we had expected.”

“And yet it means that he has not yet risen from his throne.”

“Yes,” Valory shut his eyes. “But the journey ahead is a long one, and I find that after the events of the past season, I no longer have such optimism in our ability to bring aid in time.”

“Carlin has implied that the Queen will be difficult to convince,” Siath said.

“One would think that he would speak to his own sister on our behalf.”

“You’ve said yourself that the journey is a hard one, and passable only for a handful of months out of the year. He hasn’t had much contact with her since her departure, save the occasional envoy entreating her to return.”

“And what’s reported about her sounds like something out of myth.”

Siath smiled. “I once had a Lyrian representative marvel that I wasn’t eight feet tall.” At Valory’s arched brow, he continued, “You take my meaning, don’t you?”

“She may not be what she seems. That would be less surprising than the alternative.”

“Whatever her reasons for running, she must be convinced. Use your judgment, but know that you can promise her anything she desires. She wants to be served the finest snapper at every meal? Fine. Her own rooms? A raiment of hammered gold? I will see it done. But if she doesn’t abdicate in such a way that placates Carlin’s rivals and places the crown firmly within his grasp—”

Valory turned away from the vista of the Armathian plain, leaning back against the rail. “Everyone has a price. I will learn hers.” He shook his head. “That’s not my worry. She will step up to make an alliance, for doing otherwise will doom us – and I will make sure she understands that. But will it be enough?”

“It will have to be,” Siath replied, “for there is nothing more we can do. Make haste. Argue our cause, and don’t let ‘no’ be Saria’s answer. You will return: in this I have faith. And when the time comes to face Zathár upon this most ancient field of battle – we will not meet him lying down.”

…


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter edited as of 8/27/2015 -- content remains unchanged, but this used to be chapter 7.

_The Season of Renewal  
Illán the 12; 2422_

Félix stood at _Windjammer_ ’s lee rail with his head tipped back, soaking in the brisk breeze and sunshine. Two days – six watches – since they departed from Armathia with much fanfare, and he had been happy to see the end of their time in the capital. Although the King’s pardon had kept him from threat of harm his welcome in Armathia had been frosty at best, and he knew that trouble would have stirred given enough time. Better to be at sea again, with a fine ship, a hardy crew, and a good commission.

If asked outright, Félix might have made some grudging acknowledgment of the ease with which he and _Windjammer_ ’s deckhands got on of late. Callum’s crew prized loyalty, and his decision to continue sailing with them seemed to have removed any lingering doubts from their minds. He and the Ithakan would always argue, and he doubted the Sarian would ever call him anything other than ‘Belen’, but the rapport was there, and that was enough for him.

Since their departure Callum had stopped appearing up on the quarterdeck every time he was due to take the helm. He was informed of course directions and new headings ahead of time. Arden had even invited him to continue using the charts in his cabin; he would often enter to find Arden sprawled across his bunk, reading aloud from one book or another while the Regent swung in the hammock that had been strung up in the cabin for his use. The Regent and his men still made for awkward company, and he avoided them with alacrity, but Félix found that such meetings were not unpleasant so long as Arden was there to mediate.

Félix missed his homeland and the comfort of sailing with his countrymen, yet he found that as the days passed, he grew more and more content with his new lot. News of the Regent’s survival, their commission, and the return to open sea had lifted the mood of the crew higher than Félix had seen it in weeks. More and more, he was coming to believe that he had made the right decision.

Though morale was high, Félix knew that every sailor and soldier aboard their vessel was shaken to the core by the thought of Zathár marching upon the capital in a few months’ time. Yet for all of that they were a crew that could make merry before the bloodiest of battles: a quality that most mercenary crews shared, and one that Félix had always prized.

If they all lay awake at night and stared at the bulkhead, sleepless and wondering if this was it – the last commission under which _Windjammer_ would ever sail – well, these were thoughts they didn’t voice aloud.

“Oi, Belen!”

Félix looked up to the bow where Jonah crouched, acting as _Windjammer_ ’s eyes as they traversed a cut between two shoals. “Do you require aid?”

“Of a sort, yeh. Think you can fetch me a cuppa, or find someone who will? Don’t want to fall asleep at my post.”

Félix nodded, turning for the main companionway. Though he by no means grudged time spent in the galley, he had to admit he missed the luxury of having such needs tended and filled by petty officers and eager midshipmen. He pulled up short as he landed at the bottom of the ladder, a familiar smell striking his senses and making him feel for a brief moment as though he was in a different time and place.

Ehrin whirled from her place beside the countertop where she was wedging a hot pan in place with rags wrapped around her hands. “Out,” she ordered, pointing back at the companionway.

“Jonah wants a coffee. Is that—”

“Damn it Félix, get out of my galley,” she said, stepping in front of the countertop to obscure his view of the cake she had just taken from the oven. He dropped his elbows onto the divider between the galley and companionway, leaning forward to peer into a mixing bowl that sat at her elbow. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw it was filled with a sugary, caramel glaze.

“Hey,” she snapped her fingers in front of his face, diverting his attention from the bowl. “You’ll see what I’ve made later. Now get.”

Félix hopped up to sit on the divider, which creaked under his weight. “Where did you learn to make this?”

Ehrin threw up her hands. “From a woman in the market in Zaránd, alright?”

“This is a Belenese recipe.” He dipped a finger into the caramel sauce, heedless of how she tried to slap his hand away.

“For Ranael’s sake, must you spoil the surprise?”

Félix froze as her words sank in and he realized that her decision to make such a treat was more than mere coincidence. “You made this for me?”

“ _Yes_ , you arse – it’s your day. I doubted you’d want to celebrate it proper-like, so I figured . . .” she trailed off, gesturing at the pan.

Cowed, Félix licked the caramel sauce from his finger before folding his arms across his chest. “How did you know such a thing?”

“You told me – Gods, I don’t know – a few months ago, I suppose, when we were playing cards in the hold. So.”

“I had forgotten.”

“Yeh, well – I didn’t. Happy Day, Félix.”

Félix felt satisfaction that had nothing to do with the well-made caramel sauce take hold of him. “ _You were right: I don’t want to make a big celebration out of my day, but this_ ,” he gestured at the cake, “ _this is appreciated. You must know that_.”

“You and your sweet tooth,” she said, fighting the smile that spread across her face. He jumped down from the divider to peer over her shoulder at the still-warm cake. “Yes,” she added, “it has Belenese hot peppers in it. I thought for a minute the woman was pulling my leg when she gave me the recipe.”

“You found the peppers in Zaránd.”

She shrugged. “It was a bit of a mission, but I tracked some dried ones down and put ‘em in a jar with some water so they weren’t so strong. I hope it tastes alright.”

“This was much effort for you.”

She made a dismissive noise. He could see her putting together the words of yet another demure denial of the work she put in to give pleasure to those around her, but had no desire to hear any such thing. His hands acted of their own volition and reached for her, one at her cheek and the other at her waist, landing over the hidden hilt of her rig knife.

He met no resistance as he pulled her into his chest. She fit against him, all softness and slightness and compact strength – a fascinating incongruity. She stared up at him, face upturned and dark eyes wide, and the only thing that kept him from meeting her lips with his own was cowardice – for he knew not whether she would welcome him or push him away. He doubted he would be able to take such defeat with grace.

He shut his eyes as she tucked into his shoulder, lips landing atop her head where her plait began. He held her close for a few long moments, and just as he began to fear he lacked the force of will to let her go, the telltale creak and sway of the ship announced a course change.

“Quick, grab the sauce,” she said, pulling away and reaching for the cake pan just as the thunderclap of flogging sails reached their ears. Félix steadied the bowl just in time; all of the pans hanging above their heads swung across the galley as _Windjammer_ crossed through the eye of the wind, sails coming to rest on the other side of the vessel and contents of the larder shifting with a rumble.

“Do you often lose work in a tack?” he asked, nestling the bowl in the corner of the countertop as they began to pick up speed once more.

“You’ve no idea how much of what you eat has been on the floor at some point,” she confessed. “I try to keep it all on the countertop, but in a rough sail—” she shrugged.

He made a face. “I would rather not know such things.”

“Sorry.” She began to bustle around the galley once more. “Coffee, you said? I’ll need to boil some water for it, it’ll take a few minutes.”

“I do not mind.”

She cast a bright smile at him over a shoulder before returning to her work. “So. What is it today, then? Thirty-two? Thirty-three? I know you’re older than Olivier.”

“Thirty-three.”

“It’s a good thing we don’t do candles aboard _Windjammer_ for fear of fire. I don’t think we could fit that many on yer cake, old man—hey!” She twisted away laughing as he tugged on her braid.

“You make fun of me, but you Oceanic are sensitive about your years.”

“Yeh, well, I have no enchantment, so I look as I am.”

“Does this bother you?”

“Getting bothered by it would do about as much good as getting bothered by the sun rising or the wind blowing,” she shrugged. “It’d be nice to have one, I s’pose, but I don’t, so I’ll just have to enjoy the years that Illen gives me.”

A thought struck him then, one that hadn’t occurred to him for all he avoided dwelling on the strange nature of Oceanic god-magic. “If your father had strong magic, he would see you live your whole life and remain a young man.”

“That’s not too common. Strength of enchantments run in the family, for the most part. There are exceptions, of course, like the late King, but that’s uncommon. And you know, men like Valory can marry late.”

“Yes,” Félix said, thinking about all he knew of the Regent and his magic. “He is older than my father.”

“Mine too. I think of him as being younger which I know isn’t right, but that’s enchantments for you. Every once in a while I’m reminded how beyond his years he is, but I don’t know – I guess I’m used to being around such men, and don’t give it much thought. But yeh, it _is_ strange, how different his life must be.”

“He can be slain,” Félix pointed out. “It is not certain he will live out his years.”

“Nothing’s guaranteed. Especially now.” The kettle began to whistle. “That’d be Jonah’s coffee. Would you mind asking the other lads if they’d like any?”

“At your command, Galley Tyrant.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she nudged the cake pan towards the edge of the countertop. “Sorry, what was that?”

Félix cleared his throat. “At your command, Miss Ehrin.”

“Much better. Now shoo – water’s boiling.”

.

Linen wrapped round his hands, Valory jumped to grasp the highest ratline within his reach. He tightened his body to keep from swinging with _Windjammer_ ’s sway, pulling himself up so his chin hooked over the tarred loop of line. He held the pose, suffering through the tightness in his left side and the shaking of his still-weak arm before lowering himself down to hang again. _One_.

This wasn’t the first bone he had broken, yet he found that prior experience had done nothing to temper his impatience for the process of recovery. He pushed past the fatigue and soreness, fighting to regain his strength, knowing that if he flinched away from the discomfort, he’d do himself no favors. He pulled himself up again and again, working his arms until he was no longer able to get his chin above the ratline. Dropping back to the deck with a frustrated grunt he wiped the sweat from his brow and turned away from the standing rig.

Arden sat on the midships housetop, his work untouched between his hands, eyes trained on Valory. He gave a shrug and a smile when he realized he had been caught staring.

“Neglecting your duties?” Valory asked, pulling the tar-streaked linen from his hands.

Arden’s eyes swept down his body in a slow slide. “Admiring your form.”

“Is that so?”

“And here I thought you came to do your exercises up on this part of the deck for my sake.” He favored Valory with a knowing smile.

Valory slid up to sit next to him on the housetop. “A poorly calculated attempt to seduce you away from your duties, it seems.”

“You’re a dreadful tease. Our watch won’t end for another hour.”

“Naming me a tease implies that I won’t deliver upon my promise – and I intend to.”

A low noise escaped from Arden’s lips. “You know I lack patience in such matters.”

“Apologies. Tell me then, what work occupies you?” Arden cast him a suspicious glance out of the corner of an eye, but relented when Valory held up his hands and said, “Anything I can help with?”

“Not quite, but your company is always welcome. The block needs to be taken apart and greased, something we missed while we were in port—”

Valory watched Arden’s animated explanation of rig mechanics and purchase, eyes resting on his face rather than the parts of the block he indicated as he spoke. It was a secret goal of his to encourage Arden to give these little lectures at every opportunity – even about things he already knew or wasn’t much interested in – both because he enjoyed watching him, and because he found Arden’s excitement over even the smallest matters infectious. He suspected that Arden had caught onto his motives and humored him with drawn-out explanations of mundane things, but that suited him just fine.

“And that, of course, is why pigs can’t fly.”

“Hm?” Valory furrowed his brow in confusion.

A triumphant smile spread wide across Arden’s face. “I _knew_ your mind was off elsewhere. What had your thoughts so occupied?”

An inexplicable swell of affection took Valory at that, and rather than trying to name it or even give it voice, he snaked a hand around Arden’s neck and kissed him. Arden dropped the block with a thump, sliding closer, hands landing on Valory’s waist. Valory hoped that his explanation was clear, even if it was delivered through a different application of lips and tongue than Arden had perhaps anticipated.

Aware that they remained on deck – and on watch – Valory forced himself to pull away, though he kept his hands on Arden, thumb tracing the uneven pattern the Sea-Witch King had left upon his neck. “What was that for?” Arden asked, words vibrating against Valory’s palm.

Valory gave a helpless shrug. “Must I need a reason?”

He had the distinct impression that Arden was about to tackle him to the deck when the sound of a clearing throat had them both pulling up short. Valory turned to see Félix standing before them, wearing an expression of acute discomfort. Once he realized that Valory’s eyes were on him, however, he schooled his features to neutrality.

“Miss Ehrin has made coffee.”

“None for me, thank you,” Valory said, words echoed thereafter by Arden, who had shifted forward to begin greasing the block once more.

“Do you require aid?” Félix asked. Valory appreciated that, in spite of his discomfort, Félix made such a show of goodwill.

“Not until I’m through here and we’re set to raise the fore again, though I thought I’d wait until the change of watch to do so,” Arden replied. As footsteps sounded on the foredeck behind them, he turned to call, “Imran, coffee?”

“Not coffee,” Imran said as he approached, “but if Miss Ehrin has ginger tea I will have a cup.”

He had exited the forward compartment wearing only his undershirt and the harness for his twin-blades, dark circles beneath his eyes and complexion even paler than usual.

“Sick, still?”

“I am not a man of the sea, Lord Arden,” he replied, pulling up short at the sight of Félix.

Valory knew that they had taken care to avoid one another since _Windjammer_ disembarked, but through all of their brief introductions and interactions, it hadn’t occurred to him that Félix might not have realized that Imran was, in fact, Dramorian by birth. From the way that Félix’s eyes lingered first on the harness for the twin blades and then upon the carved idol of Arrar that hung from Imran’s neck, however, Valory figured that this assumption was likely to cost him.

“Men of the desert are often ill shipboard,” Félix observed.

“Which men of the sea find very amusing,” Imran replied, narrow-eyed.

“Only because it is servants of the sultan who suffer so.”

“I am no sultan’s man,” Imran hissed.

“ _You were introduced to me as a man of Oceana and I assumed you borderland-born, but that is not whole-truth, is it_?” Félix asked in a seamless switch into Dramorian.

“ _Does it matter_?” Imran shot back. “ _A man can rise above his blood_.”

Félix’s features hardened as soon as he heard the inflection of Imran’s words. “ _A city man and a flatlander. I should have known._ ”

“ _Say whatever you have to say to me. I tire of bush-beating_.”

“ _I have nothing to say to you._ ”

Valory stood, cutting Imran off before he could respond. “Imran has fought with me for over a decade. His loyalty to Oceana is not in question. Whatever quarrel you have with Dramor, you would not be wise to take it up with him.”

Félix’s lip curled. “ _I do not like the thought of extending trust to a man of the desert_.”

“Why should I care what this dog of Belen has to say about my loyalties?” Imran sniffed. “He knows nothing of them.”

“Imran,” Valory warned, “stop goading him.”

“You say I goad him? He is the one who gave himself to the service of the demon. It is not his place to judge my loyalties.”

“ _Imran_ ,” Valory snapped as Félix’s frame went rigid.

Imran gave a flip shrug. “Very well. If he is so sensitive, I will not say such things.”

Félix’s fists balled at his sides. Color high in his cheeks, he let out a sharp breath before turning away from Imran to regard Valory and Arden once more. “No coffee?”

“Not for us, no.”

“Hm.” Félix strode to the main companionway. He paused in the threshold to cast a hard glance their way. “ _If the Dramorian wants his ginger tea, he will have to come and get it himself_.” With those words, he disappeared below.

Imran let out a derisive snort. “This is why the Western tribes are colonies of Dramor. They run from challenge.”

“We’re only going to be in _Windjammer_ ’s company for another few weeks, but I’d prefer it if you made an effort with him,” Valory said.

Imran gave him a long look. “Is this an order or a request?”

“I’m going to be unhappy if I have to order you to keep the peace. The odds are stacked against us enough as it is, without us offing one another over these age old quarrels.”

“Perhaps it was naïve of us to expect them to find commonality rather than contention,” Arden spoke up from the housetop.

Imran’s lips flattened. “You do not understand how much the West hates Dramor if you thought it would be so easy.”

“I had thought you would act like the men that you are – not like petulant children rehashing the disputes of your forefathers.” Valory folded his arms across his chest. “Now, are you going to go for your tea, or no?”

“I think not.” With a precise bow, Imran disappeared back into the forward companionway.

Valory dropped down to sit on the midships housetop once more. “I suppose that could have been worse.”

“Perhaps I should have spoken with Félix beforehand,” Arden mused. “Are you going to have another word with either of them?”

“Not unless it gets out of hand. They’ll sort themselves out so long as Imran can hold his tongue.”

“Blood runs thick.” A thoughtful frown turned Arden’s lips.

“You should know that this is the sort of dispute I find most frustrating. When I was younger, my father and Miran often received requests to settle blood feuds. I was sent in their stead. Such situations require a kind of diplomatic finesse I find unnatural and aggravating.”

Arden’s hand landed on his forearm. “Do you want me to speak with them on your behalf?”

“Not yet, but I might take you up on that offer if it comes down to it.” He reached over to press Arden’s knee. “I’m not usually the sort to delegate the more unsavory tasks, but I’d appreciate it.”

“I’m your Steward, Val,” he replied, a warm smile lighting his features. “It’s what I’m here for.”

…

Félix hovered in the main companionway, head poking around the doorframe to regard the two men sprawled in the windward mainsail Ballantine. Another eight watches had passed since the anniversary of his birth. Aside from Ehrin’s recreation of a traditional Belenese cake, his day had gone unremarked – just as he preferred. In the intervening days he had yet to speak with the Dramorian-born Lieutenant a second time; they had danced around one another’s company with relative success.

He wondered whether or not the Lieutenant had been ordered to stay out of his way, and found the thought both relieving and frustrating. The man kept a watch with two of _Windjammer_ ’s deckhands, the hours of which made it difficult for Félix to spend time observing him unawares. The Regent’s recommendation aside, Félix couldn’t imagine extending any sort of trust to an Indarian without the evidence of his own eyes telling him to do so – evidence that was near impossible to gather with the man hiding from his sea-sickness in the forward compartment during off-watch hours.

Félix had attempted to broach the subject with Arden three separate times over the past days. Twice he was stymied by his own inability to find the right words. The final attempt was cut short by the embarrassing experience of approaching Arden’s cabin door only to hear the sound of the Regent’s voice coming from within, muffled entreaties and invectives growled in his low tone. As soon as Félix realized what he was overhearing he had jumped backwards as though the latch had burned him, tripping over his feet in his rush to get out of the salon. Ehrin had taken one look at his red-faced mortification and thrown her head back with laughter. ‘ _I take it they’re busy then, yeh_?’ She had teased.

He struggled to find humor in the situation.

Now another day had passed and still he had said nothing. From his vantage point in the doorway of the main companionway he could see that both Arden and the Regent were absorbed in a sheaf of papers spread between them. Their heads were bent together, shoulders resting against one another with a closeness and ease too intimate to be shared between a superior and a subordinate.

Steeling his resolve, he shoved down his discomfort and stepped out onto deck. The Regent’s eyes flicked his way, but he didn’t seem to consider Félix any sort of threat, and didn’t move to put more space between him and his Steward. Félix knew this for the compliment it was; it was no small matter, for them to be as they were around him. Such practices between men were still strange to him, however, and he found himself shifting from foot to foot as he came to stand before them.

“Something you wished to discuss?” Arden asked, looking up from his reading.

Félix realized he was standing at parade rest and forced his shoulders to relax. “I wish to know why the Oceanic King would pardon a son of Garo.”

Arden had clearly anticipated this question for some time, for his reply came without hesitation. “While I wouldn’t presume to know the mind of the late King Adrianth, I imagine his reasons were similar to those King Siath gave when he pardoned you.”

Félix grit his teeth. “Yes, but I am not a son of _Garo_.”

Arden and Valory exchanged a long look, the sort that conveyed whole sentences in a single blink. “Alright,” Arden said, handing his papers off to Valory, “let’s go to the bow.” He held up an arm which Félix took, pulling him out of the coil and onto his feet.

They ran into Ehrin and Jonah on the foredeck, passing the time on bow watch by playing some kind of Kilcoranian word game. Ehrin noticed them first, brow furrowed at their early arrival. “Our watch doesn’t end for another two hours,” she said, pausing mid-verse.

“Give us a few minutes, would you?”

As Ehrin and Jonah disappeared aft, Félix joined Arden up in the prow, wedging himself between the capstan and the rail. “They do not hear us in the fo’c’sle?” he asked.

“The hatch is dogged shut.” Arden peered at him between the capstan and the staysail boom, his searching grey stare sweeping over Félix’s face. “You wanted to talk about Imran, I gathered, so talk.”

Félix grit his teeth. “ _The Dramorian is Garo’s son_.”

“How did you figure?”

“ _He fits the description of Garo’s youngest._ ”

“Is that what you discovered on deck the other day that so unnerved you?” Arden asked.

“ _That was when I made the connection, yes._ ”

Arden leaned back against the cap rail, head resting against its salt-spattered length. “Perhaps I should have told you outright to avoid confusion. I hope you didn’t think we were hiding it from you. It didn’t occur to me that it would be such a sticking point.”

“ _You didn’t think the identity of his father would trouble me_?” Félix repeated, incredulous. “ _His family rules Dramor in all but name_.”

“Neither you nor I are men made in our father’s image.”

Félix shook his head. “ _It is not the same. Garo has done more harm than I can express. He is relentlessly devoted to furthering Indar and Arrynmathár’s interests. His sons are Zathár’s greatest advocates._ ”

“You know Imran’s brothers?”

“ _I met Alvar, the General, many years ago. He is the one who led the march on Anaphe. As for the other, Obed – his name is on the lips of all of Zathár’s followers. They say it was his call that raised the creature from the deep_.”

Arden gave a low whistle. “Gods, I don’t even know what to say to that. It’ll shame Imran to hear such news.”

“Shame him?”

“Imran’s path was different from yours,” Arden reminded him. “He severed all ties with his family and renounced his heritage in favor of becoming a citizen of Oceana. He knows of his father’s corruption, but it will grieve him to hear what his brother has become.”

Félix studied Arden’s tone for any sign of falsehood or exaggeration, but found none. “How can you give him such trust?”

“Me personally? When I met him, he was introduced as the Regent’s second-in-command. That was the only recommendation I needed.”

“Hm.”

“You wanted my honest answer,” Arden shrugged. “I was born to the House of Stewards. The Regent’s word is often enough for me – and vice versa.”

“Foolish,” Félix admonished.

“Was it? Since then I’ve fought side-by-side with the man countless times. If what you say about Alvar is the case, Imran even raised arms against his own family during the fall of Anaphe. What cause to I have to suspect his motives?”

“He is _Indarian_.”

“And a good man.” Arden leveled him with a pitying glance that further stoked his ire. “You can’t hold him accountable for things that others have done. That’s what got us into the mess we made of the tribal council.”

“Hm.”

“To be honest I’m also disappointed in you. You’re casting stones at a man who comes from the same angle as you.”

“You are calling me a hypocrite,” Félix said.

“In so many words.”

“Hm.” Félix stood. “You have given me much to think about.”

Arden rose to his feet as well, ducking beneath the staysail boom. “I assume that means there’s no more you wished to discuss with me.”

“There is not,” he said, turning towards the midships companionway. He needed to return to his cabin, to have the time and space to himself to mull over the things that they had said. “I will see you at the next meal.”

“Alright, Félix. And – think about what I said, will you?”

Félix paused a few strides away from the companionway hatch, offering his arm to Arden on impulse. Arden clasped it without hesitation, fist thumping him between the shoulder blades. Félix felt some of the tension drain from his frame when Arden allowed him to return the gesture. Issues with the Indarian aside, he still had Arden’s trust.

“I will,” he promised before sliding back the hatch. “ _Thank you for your time_.”

…

Halen’s coastline appeared on the horizon as they broke bread at sunset. Upon receiving news that they were less than twelve hours out from their destination, Valory had retreated back to the cabin to rest up during their final few off-watch hours, sprawling across Arden’s bunk with one of his treatises on mainland Sarian slang. Arden had joined him shortly thereafter, settling against Valory’s chest with his knees drawn up before him and his head pillowed in the hollow of Valory’s shoulder.

Valory set the treatise down only a few paragraphs in, abandoning it in favor of watching Arden work through half-lidded eyes. A fine crease had appeared between Arden’s brows as he concentrated on his task, weaving a length of wax whipping thread between deft fingers. “Sarian not capturing your interest as you had hoped?” he asked.

Valory slipped a hand into Arden’s hair, toying with the unbound strands – a pastime he found infinitely more satisfying than brushing up on his spoken Sarian. “One could say that.”

“Keep that up and I’ll fall asleep before finishing this bit of decoration,” Arden warned, gesturing down to the half-formed ornamental knot wrapping around Valory’s scabbard.

“Mmm,” Valory offered, close to sleep himself as he scratched his fingers over Arden’s scalp.

Arden craned his neck to regard him with a doting smile, unshaven jawline scratching against Valory’s collarbone. “I can move to the hammock if you want to kip before watch.”

Valory grumbled out a response and wrapped his other arm around Arden’s waist, tugging him in tight by way of reply. The tremor in Arden’s shoulders informed him that he was being laughed at, but he was too tired to care.

“Like a limpet,” Arden murmured, no small amount of fondness in his voice. He fell quiet as his focus returned to his work once more.

Exhausted though he was, the very knowledge that their watch was soon to begin kept Valory from falling asleep. His head lolled to the side on Arden’s lone pillow, eyes at half-mast as he listened with half of an ear to the chatter that drifted in through their open door from the salon. They were sailing too hard to open the port light or overhead hatch, and so had sacrificed privacy for the sake of getting air into the cabin. The men were good enough not to pry, and kept their eyes on their card game – especially after Arden had responded to Jonah’s wolf whistle by hitting him with a well-aimed boot.

They were on their umpteenth hand of Ante and Lars, who had been going on about his homeland since they pulled off the dock at Armathia, started up as soon as his cards were dealt.

“Two days and we’ll be on Halen, lads – and you’ll get to see all of it,” he promised. “I’ll take you around to my cousin’s tavern when we put into port at Thorne. It’ll be drinks all around and friendly lasses.”

“You’d best not be talking the place up for show,” Jonah warned over the telltale slap of another card hitting the table.

“Not a whit – even old Imran can find himself a bit of sport on Halen.”

“I dunno, last I heard Imran got another pretty little shell from his lass before we left Armathia.”

“ _Did_ he now—”

“You sailors gossip like a pair of old women,” Imran broke in. Valory felt Arden shake with quiet laughter once more.

“She’s a serving girl at the Black Wave, isn’t she?” Jonah asked, putting down another card.

“That is no business of yours.”

“Oi mate, can’t you satisfy a man’s curiosity?”

Valory let out a contented rumble as Arden set down the scabbard and twisted around in his arms. “You didn’t tell me Imran’s still seeing that girl from the Black Wave,” he said, placing a kiss against the side of Valory’s neck.

“You’re as bad as Jonah.”

Arden rested his head in the crook between neck and shoulder. “You can pretend not to care all you like; just because you ignore courtly natter doesn’t mean you don’t keep tabs on your men.”

“I didn’t realize you followed the love lives of others, Steward-mine.”

“Not much escapes my notice.”

“So _modest_.”

Arden hummed a response, nuzzling at the side of Valory’s neck. “I’d be glad to hear that he has found some happiness.”

“That I couldn’t say, but there are two painted cowrie shells sitting on display in his cabin, if that answers your question.”

The clanging of the ship’s bell startled them out of their lazy pose. They tumbled from the bunk, landing unsteady on their feet and kicking at the bedclothes wrapped around their knees. Once free Arden vaulted over the hammock and grabbed his belt off the desk, whipping it on over his trousers and dashing barefoot into the salon. Valory followed hot on his heels, broadsword reclaimed from its spot on Arden’s sea chest.

He had no time to think about what the threat might be before emerging out onto deck where he followed Arden forward to the source of the commotion. It wasn’t until he was halfway to the windward foredeck that he heard it – the hisses and clicks chilling in their familiarity. He had only just drawn his broadsword when he saw the first sea-witch come over the bow, claws out and teeth bared.

Valory braced his sword and charged with a shout, only to watch a figure dart in front of him and deal a stunning blow to the hissing creature before turning on a second and dispatching it with merciless efficiency. _Félix_ , he realized, and as he did much of Ehrin and Arden’s words on the man began to make sense, for the former Commodore fought like he was possessed, with a mastery that few ever achieved.

“How many?” he shouted, seeing Imran step up out of the corner of an eye to come to Félix’s aid.

“ _Less than ten_ ,” Félix called, reverting to Belenese in the heat of the moment.

Valory heard a wet slap come from behind his right shoulder and turned just as a set of claws appeared over _Windjammer_ ’s side. A single hard thrust with his blade and the creature wailed, hands going limp as it fell down to the deep from whence it came.

When no more followed it out of the water he turned his attention back towards the bow. Félix fought on beside Imran just starboard of the fo’c’sle hatch. Valory headed inboard, ducking beneath the staysail boom in time to see Arden fell a witch with his rig knife. Another lurched over the prow to take its place, forcing Arden to duck the swipe of its claws and clearing the way for Valory to strike over his head. His aim was true, blade piercing the rubbery skin of the thing’s neck and spraying them with the thick black blood that ran through its veins.

No more came for them after it fell back to the locker, and he rushed to the rail to find nothing below them but _Windjammer_ ’s churning wake.

Valory and Arden swept back around the fo’c’sle together, ducking past the staysail boom as a witch leapt at Félix’s back. He didn’t see the foe that came for him; he was balanced upon a spoke of the capstan, eyes trained ahead as he ran another one of the creatures through. Before Valory could come to his aid Imran was there, twin blades flashing in the lantern light to drop the final witch down to the deck. Félix turned away from the bowsprit at the witch’s dying screech to see it already felled at his feet, Imran standing over it with arms raised.

“ _It seems the sand-eater can wield a blade_ ,” he said, casting a final glance past the bowsprit to ensure that no other witches came their way before sheathing his cutlass.

Imran slipped his own weapons into his harness, baring his teeth in a not-smile. “ _Call me a sand-eater again and those will be the last words to pass from your lips_.”

They held one another’s stare until Valory cleared his throat, drawing their attention his way. “Quick work on bow watch, gentlemen.”

“I was about to say as much,” Arden agreed. “A bad omen to see witches on a night watch. It’s a good thing you kept your eyes sharp.”

“This was a hunting pack. No more,” Félix said.

“You’ll have to forgive us for not jumping to that conclusion.”

Imran muttered something under his breath. Félix bristled but ignored him, keeping his eyes trained upon Arden. “My information is old,” he admitted, “but in the days before I turned away from Zathár, the fish-men had not yet found a new King. This was no battle; this was a hunt.” He gestured down at the body of the witch sprawled before them on the foredeck. “It was hungry. Look. You can see its bones.”

“Coincidence, then?” Valory pressed.

Félix rolled his shoulders. “I do not like coincidence, but you once told me that this passage was dangerous in part because of the creatures. This looks like a hunting pack to me. No more. That is all I can tell you.”

“Be that as it may, I think we ought to double our bow watch,” Arden said.

“Yes,” Félix agreed.

“Alright. Imran, Félix, let’s rouse everyone and meet in the salon, save for whoever’s at the helm. I’ll draw up a new watch schedule for the time we have left until we reach Halen. It’ll be a pain, but I doubt any will argue with the precaution.”

Félix was off with a nod, following Arden’s command with nary a protest, Imran at his heels.

“How,” Valory wondered, “did you manage to command the loyalty of a Belenese revolutionary?”

“Gods only know,” Arden shrugged.

Satisfaction washed through Valory on behalf of the man who stood before him. He was both fortunate and proud to call him his Steward. “I suppose that’s the case indeed, for you’ll never tell me,” he remarked. “Now,” he gestured at the corpse of the witch sprawled before them, “I’ll take the arms if you take the tail.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter edited as of 12/1/16

_The Season of Renewal  
Illán the 12; 2422_

Siath kept a close watch over his Steward, who sat to his right with a sheaf of notes in one hand and a mug of black tea in the other. Bruise-dark circles were smudged beneath his eyes, features haggard even after a night’s sleep. Verne would never say as much out loud, but Siath knew that the man was running himself ragged trying to keep up with the amount of work they had piled before them – interrogations, military councils, the constant come-and-go of ambassadors from the isles. This wasn’t the first time he had considered lightening his Steward’s workload, though he knew the man well enough to realize he’d have to do so by force. The order stopped up on the tip of his tongue, however, for it would make him no small hypocrite to demand that his Steward step back while he, too, was kept up sleepless at night by the mountains of paperwork piled across his desk.

Verne, still a decorated warrior after so many years within city walls, glanced up the moment he felt Siath’s eyes sitting heavy upon his shoulders. “Are you ready to call the council into session, my Lord?”

“If you are.”

Verne waved a dismissive hand over his notes. “I’m prepared, my Lord – I assure you.”

“I’d never doubt it. At your leisure, Verne.”

Yet before Verne had the chance to move to the first petitioners of the day, a figure swept through the door unannounced. Siath’s surprise must have shown upon his face, for the council turned as one to see Lady Fiona marching down the aisle to the dais, wrapped in the vestments of office and carrying the viceroy’s staff.

Siath knew he was staring and shut his mouth with a click, smoothing his features as best as he could. “Lady Fiona,” he said, sparing a sideways glance and catching Verne’s consternated scowl, “I hadn’t known we’d be hearing from you this morning.”

She either didn’t hear the rebuke in his tone or chose to ignore it. “I have an important matter that I wished to address, my Lord,” she said, sweeping into a graceful curtsey as she reached the dais.

Siath supposed that he should have been annoyed by the delay her interruption would cause, but found himself too intrigued to send her away. “And what matter might that be?”

“My Lord, I wish to correct a diplomatic oversight for the sake of my people.”

That wasn’t what he had expected to hear. “An oversight?”

“Anaphe lacks proper legal representation in this council, my Lord.”

Siath scratched his head, nearly unseating the golden circlet that sat upon his brow. “We have much of Anaphe’s council with us this very morning,” he pointed out, nodding in Lord Jarmon’s direction.

She straightened, resting the end of her staff against the flagstones before her. “And they are leaderless, my Lord. Duke Edmund has been barred from council due to the pending investigation. In his absence, it should fall to the viceroy to take a council seat. I still hold the staff.”

If the mutterings of councilors were anything to go by, Siath suspected that they grudged her the accurate – if unwelcome – point. “By that I suppose you mean to imply that Edmund’s empty seat is yours for the taking.”

“As you say, my Lord.”

“Surely, Lady Fiona, there are other matters with which you wish to occupy yourself?” a councilor spoke up from the back of the hall.

Siath hadn’t expected such thunderous determination to capture the girl’s features, but the challenge only seemed to steel her resolve. She didn’t deign to turn and address the councilor, meeting Siath’s eyes instead.

“My father was born to his title and assigned to Anaphe by the late King as a matter of duty. My wishes are immaterial, and I would dishonor my House by placing them above my city in its time of need. Anaphe must have a viceroy.”

“And you’re willing to fill this role?” Siath asked, finding his voice.

Her chin lifted. “I swore it many months ago, and I will swear it again.”

Siath was glad to be saved the need to reply by the protest of another councilor. “Is the Lady Fiona fit for such a role? Anaphe fell, my Lords.”

Fiona’s features hardened. Siath could see Miran in the curl of her lip, Arden in the tilt of her jaw, Verne in her cold, grey stare. He knew the look she wore better than he knew his own visage. It was the calculating, determined countenance of a Steward – and arguing with it was about as productive as beating one’s head against Armathia’s outer walls.

Fiona turned to regard her challenger. “I can’t imagine that the King appreciates such a slight of his brother’s military leadership – Lord Alec, was it?”

“My Lord must know that wasn’t my intention—”

Siath forced the near-reflexive smile from his face at the councilor’s spluttering. It seemed that Conrad’s daughter had learned how to twist words to her advantage as well as her uncles did – and she was far from through.

“Then perhaps we ought not judge fitness to hold a title on the success of Dramor’s creatures, because I assure you – no man, no matter how great, could have held back what marched upon our walls,” she said, turning back to face the dais. “Anaphe was lost to us that day, but her people are not. A wise man once told me that home is more than just a place. Anaphe is more than stone walls and golden towers. What’s left of my home lies with its people; people who are camped across the Armathian plain, refugees in their own kingdom. They are vulnerable. They are afraid.”

“And you wish to help them,” Siath concluded.

“I will not see my city defeated a second time.”

“This girl doesn’t know her place.” Alec spoke again, grumbling under his breath just loud enough for the words to reach Siath’s ears.

Fiona’s free hand balled into a fist at her side. “If you think me unfit to rule because of the body I was born to, then so be it. Take the staff from me and dismiss me from council. But my Lord, _someone_ must wield it, and if I am to do so, then my place is here.”

Siath tried to gauge the mood of the room. Neither Verne nor Miran appeared pleased by Fiona’s appearance, and the majority of the council had heads bent together, whispers of confusion and outrage passing between allies and enemies alike. When his eyes fell upon Jarmon and Arick, however, seated with the surviving members of the Anaphean high council, he realized that not all of the men before him were averse to the thought of the staff staying in Lady Fiona’s hands. From the wide-eyed glances they exchanged Siath figured that they hadn’t put her up to this, but neither did they want to contest her claim.

Interesting.

“My Lord.” Fiona’s voice, betraying hesitation for the first time that morning, broke into his thoughts. She stepped forward, holding out the staff for him to take.

In spite of her well-thought words and Jarmon and Arick’s support of her position, Siath suspected that things would go easier if he reassigned the staff. Council had been touch-and-go ever since Lester’s arrest; as much as he admired her nerve, he didn’t think it wise to continue stirring the pot.

His hand had barely moved forward to accept the staff when long fingers snapped around his wrist. His mother, who had spent the past months acting more as an observer than an active participant in council, pinned him with her narrow-eyed stare. “Don’t you dare take that from her,” she hissed.

His momentary surprise flared out as quickly as it came. He knew his mother had sat at the head of the Armathian council during the trial with the Sea-Witch King, though he had never given the matter much thought before now. Yet to compare Fiona’s claim with his mother’s was a stretch. Persephone had taken the role out of necessity, and was already a seasoned leader by the time she was called to service. Could Conrad’s daughter make the same measured choices? He’d had plenty visions of Fiona, but none had ever put her upon the dais.

“My Lord,” Fiona repeated, a stubborn set to her brow.

Her countenance blurred, wavering like the line of the horizon in the hottest days of Fanán. For a flash of a moment it wasn’t Fiona standing before the dais demanding he make his choice but Verne instead, young and injured as he had been after their campaign into the swamplands. Siath hadn’t wanted Verne’s fealty – not then – and had always wondered why Illen would give him such a dour young man for a Steward. Yet he had caved regardless, and accepted Verne’s pledge against his better judgement. Verne never gave him cause to regret it.

When Siath’s vision cleared Verne was back at his side, some thirty years older than the day he had made his oath. Fiona remained before the dais, the same severe set to her features. Her knuckles were as white as the wood of the staff she clutched, frame wound tight with the effort of standing tall before him.

Siath pulled his hand back. “Keep it, Lady Fiona. As Lord Conrad’s heir, I will grant you the seat that he would have occupied were he with us today.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” She swept into a deep curtsey, staff planted on the flagstones before her.

Siath inclined his head. “Take a seat near your countrymen, Lady Fiona, so we might begin.”

“There is one more thing, my Lord.” Siath waited, brow raised, until she continued. “Upon our dismissal this afternoon I would like to visit with my people, to see what aid they require.”

“The council has already been charged with attending to such matters.”

Her shoulders tensed. “Yes, my Lord – and while I admire the council’s efforts, I’ve heard rumor of the struggles my people face. They cannot remain camped outside of Armathia’s walls. No good can come of it.”

“I agree in principle,” he said. “In practice, however, I’m not sure if I want you to make that journey yourself. It is more than your station asks of you.”

“My Lord,” she protested.

“We will discuss this matter again at a later date, but for now, let’s begin with the day’s agenda.”

She opened her mouth to speak again but seemed to think better of it, something of a look on her face that reminded Siath very much of Verne when he was about to pull of an ingenious political maneuver. She thanked him with the proud graciousness that only a Steward could manage before sweeping into an unoccupied seat beside Lord Jarmon.

As Verne called council to order, Siath found his attention wandering back towards where Lady Fiona sat, the very picture of engaged interest. He had a sinking feeling that she had no intention of following his implied command to stay within the inner city walls. The thought that she would take matters into her own hands irritated him, but didn’t come as much of a surprise.

Siath respected the girl’s honest desire to help her people, but worried that she was yet too untried for such desires to amount to much. He only hoped that she wasn’t so naïve as to attempt to sneak down to the camps on her own.

Whatever came of her acquisition of a council seat, Siath knew that her continued office was a matter of pride for the Anaphean councilors she sat beside. Though he doubted the extent to which she would use her title to facilitate governmental changes, she was a fine choice of figurehead for the Anaphean people. In times so dark, the power of such a gesture couldn’t be overlooked.

If he found a smile working its way across his face as she stepped into a discussion on coastal commerce routes, showing an intimate knowledge of the path her people had taken on their march from Anaphe and schooling another councilor in the process, well—

He couldn’t help but admire such pluck.

…

“Lady Fiona, I must protest,” Jarmon said, moving along beside her with hurried footsteps. “The King forbade you from—”

“The King forbade me nothing,” she replied, favoring him with a placid smile at the whirl of panicked thought that escaped from behind his barriers. “He said he couldn’t recommend such an action and informed me that the council would have another discussion on the matter at an unspecified later date. If the King wished to prohibit me from leaving the inner city, he would have commanded it.”

Jarmon’s frown deepened. “I have known you to take risks in the name of our city, Lady Fiona, but is this not in excess?”

She stopped mid-stride, the guardsmen she had commandeered for her mission nearly running into her from behind. “Yes. No. I don’t know.”

“My _Lady_.”

Some of the nerves she had shoved down during council crept into her voice once more. “I don’t like disobeying the spirit of the King’s word. I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. I don’t even know what I’m going to do once I get there – but I must do _something_.”

“This is a sudden decision. I’ve seen little of you since we arrived.”

She looked away. “I wanted to attend council from the moment I set foot in Armathia, but was told that my presence was not required. I regret that I accepted such words without argument. My uncle made me see the right of it.”

“Lord Steward Arden, I presume.”

“Yes.”

“The same ‘wise man’ who spoke to you of homes and cities?”

She cracked a smile. “The very one. So you see, if he thinks that I have a role to play, that I have the ability to make things better for my people—”

“Steward Arden is an impressive man.”

“And I think he’s right, even if I worry that his words flatter me too much.” She held his stare. “Will you come with me?”

Jarmon scrubbed a hand down his face. “Your heart is in the right place, my Lady, but I’m not sure you quite understand what you’re getting yourself into.”

“To the contrary Lord Jarmon, I’m aware that I’m in over my head. It’s why I’m asking you for help. You gave it the last time I asked, and it made all the difference. I couldn’t have held Anaphe for as long as I did without you.”

His eyes shut at the mention of his city, fingertips touching his brow. “I’m not sure I’d count that as a recommendation in my name.”

Speaking of the fall of Anaphe hurt like a jab to a still-healing wound. She missed Malcolm so much it made her chest ache and her eyes water, and there was a part of her that wondered whether or not she had so easily given up her council seat because she had wanted to run from the grief, to hide from what had happened to her city under her watch, to shy away from culpability.

It was no way to honor his memory.

“We couldn’t save our city, no, but you and Malcolm leant me the strength I needed to keep Samir from taking the staff. How many more might have died otherwise?”

Jarmon let out a sigh, the sort that was audible and long-suffering and let Fiona know she had just won his support. “Then let us go, my Lady, before any stop to ask us what we’re doing dawdling about outside the stables.”

Well out of her depth she may have been, but Fiona had at least known enough to call ahead for a coach. She was thankful that her request had gone unquestioned and unremarked by the stable master, and that the coachman didn’t even spare a blink in her direction as the guardsmen helped her up to sit within the coach’s confines. She drew the curtains shut while Jarmon took his seat across from her; it wouldn’t do for rumors of their excursion to circulate through the upper levels before she had worked out a plan to bring before council.

Jarmon made a handful of hesitant overtures at conversation; overtures she would have known as half-hearted even if she couldn’t feel the dim pulse of intentions that ran beneath his thoughts. They soon lapsed into silence as the coach rattled down Armathia’s cobbled streets.

The silence was heavy, and Fiona felt the weight of her decision settle upon her shoulders. The comforting familiarity of Jarmon’s enchantment did little to soothe her nerves; she fidgeted in her seat, anxiety growing as the coach rumbled down through the city levels. She had a plan of sorts – a rough idea of what she would say and do once she got to the camps, but the worry that her words would be disregarded, or that her people would see her as the council did – a little girl playing at her father’s position – gnawed at her.

The road flattened beneath the wheels of the coach as they passed through the city gates. Turning away from the winding streets of the harbor settlements, they rattled westward along the perimeter of Armathia’s walls. The cobbles gave way to a wide dirt road as the gates receded behind them. This was Armathia’s thoroughfare, which cut a wide swath across the plain and up the peninsula towards the highlands. It was the road that had brought Anaphe’s refugees to these walls, and was the place where, unable to go any further, they had set up camp.

Fiona took a calming breath as the coach came to a stop, scooting forward to allow the stockier of the two guardsmen to help her down to the soft soil of the Armathian plain. The camp sprawled around them in long lines of organized chaos; to the east the dwellings of the harbor pushed the camp onto the beaches, whereas to the west it stretched onto the plain without pattern or reason.

This early in the afternoon the camp had emptied some; those with skills or trades to offer left for nearby towns to peddle their wares or labor for food and coin. The area was by no means vacant, however; women and children knelt around the campfires spread between makeshift shelters, all busy with the work it took to keep such a camp running. She couldn’t help but notice how few men stood among them, and knew this wasn’t because they had found work elsewhere. Many had come to Anaphe in the days before battle to join the fight, and it was those men who were missing from the scene before her.

“Where to, my Lady?” Jarmon asked, shifting on his feet as he stepped up next to her.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. A prickle down her spine confirmed that she was the subject of scrutiny and speculation; her arrival hadn’t gone unnoticed, even if none had come forward to greet them. “I want to help them, but I don’t know what to do.”

Jarmon grit his teeth. “I suggest you make a quick decision, for I didn’t come all this way against the King’s recommendation to turn around and ride right back up to the inner city.”

Fiona looked from shelter to shelter, trying to parse the press and swirl of curious thought that tingled down her back. Much of that curiosity was laced with suspicion and distrust, a matter which she understood even if it saddened her. When her eyes fell upon the figure of a middle-aged woman with nothing but gentle interest at the forefront of her mind, Fiona hoped that she had found someone who would, at the least, help her without harboring a quiet agenda of their own.

“My Lady.” The woman rose to her feet as they approached, Jarmon and the guardsmen flanking Fiona on either side. She bobbed into an unpracticed curtsey, eyes roving over the embroidery on Fiona’s cuffs without giving any indication that she knew what office it represented.

“Fair weather,” Fiona greeted. A handful of girls just shy of their majority peeked out from a tent flap, chittering and whispering. “I was hoping you would be able to help me.”

“Me, my Lady?”

The whispering increased in volume. “I’m looking for someone I might speak with – and elder, perhaps – who has a voice of authority here in the camp.”

“From my own village? Or—” the woman trailed off.

“Someone who has kept order in the camp, whose name is respected within its limits.” Fiona felt her nerves settle somewhat at the approving nod Jarmon gave her. Though she had arrived without much of a plan, she wasn’t about to waste their time here.

The woman shifted, nervous beneath Fiona’s steady stare. “There are a few like that, my Lady, but one above all in these parts. He’s been doing what he can for us, you see, and we all take his words to heart.”

“Where can I find him?”

“At the fire just past that long canvas tent. His name is Cassel, my Lady. He’s a Healer.” She gave a warning glance over her shoulder, which silenced the whispered exclamations of the girls in the tent flap behind her. “Sorry, my Lady.” She turned back Fiona’s way. “We don’t see ladies so fine all that often.”

“No need to apologize – you’ve been very helpful.” Fiona had just turned to leave the fireside when the woman stopped her with an outstretched arm. She froze just before her fingers brushed Fiona’s embroidered cuffs, cheeks coloring.

“I can take you to him, my Lady.”

“To the Healer? Yes, that would be agreeable,” she said, favoring the woman with a smile.

She waited with Jarmon while the woman hushed the girls once more, giving a handful of instructions regarding the food she had stewing in a battered pot above the fire. With another awkward bob the woman turned back Fiona’s way, a hesitant gesture in the direction of the long canvas tent.

“That’s alright,” Fiona said, knowing the source of her discomfort without having to ask, “you can walk beside me. I won’t take it as disrespect.”

As they walked the woman fell silent but her mind did not, bright patterns of thought that conjured snatches of images of the neighborhoods that sat just outside Anaphe’s walls, a regal procession, a man on a white horse. Fiona had never been around someone who made no attempt to hide their surface thoughts, and found the spinning eddies of her worried monologue fascinating to behold.

Past that initial brightness of the woman’s mind Fiona found more worrisome impressions – the woman’s fear, her hunger, her worry for the health of her grandchildren. Her grief over her son, who she assumed lost with Anaphe. The pain she felt at leaving her family’s home.

Fiona clenched her teeth, overwhelmed by all the woman unwittingly displayed. As they rounded the long tent and approached another fire, she tried to draw her focus inward and deaden the grasping reach of her enchantment just as Gabriel had taught her. It was a skill she still struggled to master, but she was able to withdraw enough that the woman’s surface thoughts receded to no more than a background hum.

A man sat upon a blanket beside the fire before them, eyes shut, a faraway expression smoothed across his features. A talisman marking him as a Healer hung about his neck, and Fiona supposed that this was Cassel. He was old Anaphean, with skin dark like Malcolm’s and thick, greying hair pulled back into a messy queue. She suspected that he felt them approach more than he heard it, for his eyes snapped open and rested on hers.

“This is him, my Lady,” the woman said, arms wrapped around her ribs.

“Thank you. That will be all,” Fiona replied, not taking her eyes from Cassel’s. She saw the woman curtsey out of the corner of an eye before she slipped away, back around the long canvas tent.

Cassel’s thoughts were more guarded than the woman’s had been, though she could feel hostility and frustration rolling off of him in thick waves – respect for her station be damned. Her heart beat hard in her ribcage as she approached him, stopping at the edge of his blanket, ignoring Jarmon’s whispered entreaty to pick _anyone_ else.

“May I sit with you?” she asked, glad that her voice didn’t tremble.

“What’s a highborn woman doing down here?”

Fiona put a hand out to gentle the guardsman beside her as he bristled at the slight. “I’ve come to speak to an elder. My name is Fiona bar Conrad,” she said, resolve strengthening under his hard stare.

His eyes swept over her raiment. “The viceroy.”

“Yes.”

His _suspicion-disbelief-doubt_ left an acrid tang in the back of her throat. He was bone-weary. His family was in pain. He didn’t know what to make of her, and for a moment she pressed hard enough at his thoughts to see him as he saw her – a girl just past her majority, born to wealth, ignorant of their suffering—

“My Lady.” His voice was flat. “I am Cassel bar Walter. My family is from Seiba-on-Shore.”

“You would have been among the first evacuees,” she realized, and his position as a leader within the camp began to make more sense. He had been living here, outside Armathia’s walls, for months.

“We left when the order was given.” It was a statement of fact, no more, but Fiona couldn’t help but take it for an accusation.

“I’m sorry for your loss, but I am glad that you were out of harm’s way when Dramor came.”

“Are you?” He stood. “We haven’t got that impression. We’ve been left to fend for ourselves since we were told to clear out of our homes.”

She had suspected as much, and felt an overwhelming crush of guilt knowing she had done nothing to stop it, choosing instead to sequester herself in her uncle’s House and think of nothing but her own grief. “You’ve received no word from the council?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “We’ve gotten some aid, but it’s not enough to keep our people from going hungry and growing ill. Messengers from the inner city have told us to be patient, but patience is hard at times like these. Many of the newest arrivals have seen battle with foul things.”

A weight pressed upon her shoulders and she knew it was his own – the weight of others looking to him for help and Healing, for guidance, for relief. She felt his _worry-fear-anger_ at being unable to ease the suffering of his fellows. She knew that he took the Armathian council’s silence as a betrayal, and that he saw her as yet another messenger sent to placate him.

“I am no messenger.”

His eyes flicked back and forth between her and Jarmon. “Then why have you come?”

“This morning I looked the King and council in the eye and swore I would do all that I could to make this right.” She ignored the pointed doubt that raced through his surface thoughts. “From what I’ve been told, our people have chosen to follow your lead. They’ve begun to bring you their grievances, their worries, their ills. It’s a role that you have been thrust into, but one that you have refused to shirk.”

“Someone has to make something out of this mess.”

“Yes.” She stepped towards him. “You’ve heard, I’m sure, what happened to my father. You know that I’m not what Anaphe would otherwise have wanted for a viceroy. But here I am, and it remains my duty to care for our people.”

“Are you saying we have this in common?” he asked. Fiona could taste the curiosity that hung in the air and knew it didn’t come from him alone. A glance around the campfire confirmed this; her presence had begun to draw a crowd.

“No orders brought me here but my own. I want to help,” she insisted.

“Then what do you want from me?”

“You know the state of things better than I. Tell me what our people need, and I will see it done.”

She could feel him weighing her sincerity, his opinion of her shifting and realigning as he met her steady stare. “We had thought we were abandoned by our own when we first arrived. We had nowhere to go and no food aside from what we brought with us. Some of the able-bodied have found day work in nearby towns and fields, but it isn’t enough. The conditions here are poor, and many have taken ill. Our few Healers – myself included – are overtaxed. Since the rains stopped, fresh water has been hard to come by. We’ve been boiling seawater but can’t keep up with demand.”

Fiona turned to Jarmon, who accepted Cassel’s words with a thin frown lining his lips. “Lord Jarmon, I would be much obliged if you would aid me by taking notes.”

“Of course, Lady Fiona.” If Jarmon was surprised by her request, it didn’t show.

“You’ve received no aid at all?” she pressed, turning her attention back to Cassel once more.

“The councilmembers charged with our care have helped some. Those without shelter have been housed in campaign tents brought down by the Armathian infantry, and a small but steady supply of medicines has come from the Master Healer and his apprentices. The High Priest has sent his acolytes to lead prayers on several occasions, and the shopkeepers and townsfolk have given what they could,” he admitted. “But as I said, it’s not enough. If the council thinks we’ll get by on good intentions, they’re sorely mistaken.”

“Perhaps they think they’ve given all they can,” Fiona mused.

“And have they?”

She pursed her lips. “Not in my book. Will you show me around the camp?”

He favored her with another long look before his eyes shifted sideways, sweeping around the edges of his campsite where others had begun to gather, snatches of excited murmurs reaching their ears. “I still wonder whether you can and will do anything for us, but I’m not proud enough to refuse you.” He lowered his voice. “Your arrival has brought them hope.”

“Illen willing, I won’t disappoint.”

She felt a conflicting ripple of mistrust and faith pass through his thoughts. “I could say the same. “Come.” He led her away from the site of his camp, winding westward along the outer city wall.

With Jarmon and the guardsmen at her heels she walked with Cassel from one cluster of dwellings to another. Cassel narrated all they saw and made introductions as they went. He spoke of the building materials used to construct their temporary dwellings, showed them the places where they had attempted to collect rainwater and boil seawater. As they reached a part of the wall that turned into the wide, rounded based of a guard tower, Cassel stopped to show them a collection of wagons overseen by a handful of lads just at their majority.

“This is what we have for food stores,” he said, shoulders sagging. “Some of the other elders have helped me devise a rationing scheme, but it’s by no means perfect. We have little, and people are going hungry.”

“Is it necessary to keep it under armed guard?” she asked, regarding a youth a few years her junior, hand clutched tight around a battered sickle.

“It wasn’t at first, but we’ve been having problems with theft of late. It’ll only get worse as people start going without food and the armies begin their march. We try to police ourselves, but—” Cassel spread his hands.

“You don’t have enough hands.”

“Too many women and children, too many elderly and infirm,” he agreed.

They turned back through camp once more, weaving from hearth to hearth as Cassel exchanged greetings and words with those he passed. Some were from his home, but most knew him as an elder and a Healer, and waved him over to speak about their troubles and seek resolution for their disputes. Fiona could feel how the burden of such responsibility weighed upon him, and knew that he felt as helpless as she did to improve the sorry state of Anaphe’s refugees.

As Cassel turned an ear to a quiet, private consultation with a young woman round with child, Fiona found herself glad for the interruption; it gave her time to work to regain a calm demeanor – no small feat when surrounded by such suffering. The conditions further away from the city wall were squalid. Plain grass was ground to mud beneath their feet. Pits were dug at intervals, filled with waste and covered over with dirt, the smell hanging heavy in the air. It was tangible misery that matched the clawing hopelessness she sensed in the shadows of her people’s thoughts. Her fists clenched and trembled of their own volition. How could Armathia’s council have let it come to this, just outside their own city walls? Why was all of this thrust upon her shoulders, she who had never been meant for such a role?

Jarmon touched her elbow, bringing her attention back to Cassel who had returned from the pregnant woman’s campsite. “I think I understand why our people grow ill,” she said, gesturing to a half-filled pit between two makeshift tents.

“When we first came, we carted all we could to the ocean, and the conditions were livable. As our numbers grew, however, the people in the harbor settlements refused us access. It’s their right, I suppose, but we have nothing to do but bury it and it’s not enough – even though some of the lower infantry companies come at intervals to help us get the pits deep enough. We’re living elbow deep in our own filth.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “To be honest with you, I’m not sure whether there’s anything that could be done about that.”

They had begun walking again, retracing their steps towards Cassel’s campfire and the long canvas tent that ran along its side. “We can’t have it carted to the bay – there’s too much of it,” she said, wracking her brain for a solution and coming up empty. “Yet to live like this, in such conditions—”

Cassel stopped at the flap at the end of the long tent, turning to meet her eyes. “This is what war brings, my Lady.”

He held the flap up for her, allowing her to step through first. After her eyes adjusted to the light, she realized that she was in a sick house. She felt Jarmon stiffen beside her, but paid him no mind. If she fell ill, she could see the Master Healer. What did these people have?

The ill and infirm lined bedroll after bedroll, their shared pain almost bringing Fiona to her knees. Some appeared to be feverish and fitting, others bearing wounds she knew must have come from defending their homes against the creatures. Another Healer moved about the room from patient to patient, changing compresses and trying to wring out bandages with what little fresh water they had.

“Gods,” she whispered, and caught Cassel’s eye.

“This is but one of our Healing tents. There are several more scattered throughout camp, but these are my charges. They grow more numerous by the day, I—” he looked away. “I have already lost some.”

“You did all you could.”

His eyes dropped to her talisman, and he bowed his head. Her words hadn’t been meant as a platitude, and it seemed that he felt enough of her signature not to take them as such.

A low moan drew her attention to a bedroll at her left where an elderly man lay, curled in upon himself. With a start Fiona realized that the man’s eyes were open and trained on her, arm trembling with effort as he raised it in supplication. His attempt at speech came out as no more than a pained hiss. Cassel was at his side immediately, unclipping a flask from his belt and offering him a sip of water and the soothing touch of a Healer’s hand upon his brow.

“My Lady.” The man was able to form the words then, voice reedy and thin. “Please my Lady, your blessing.”

It took Fiona a moment to realize what the man was asking. “I’m sorry,” she said, shame creeping up her cheeks, “I’m not a Healer, I—” She cut herself off as desperation twisted the man’s features, his head collapsing back on the rolled rag that stood in place of a pillow.

Cassel’s dark eyes found hers over his shoulder. “He thinks you’re a priestess of Ranael,” he said, words hushed.

It was an understandable mistake, Fiona supposed, to confuse the deep blue robes of the House of Stewards with the lighter ones of Ranael’s priesthood – especially if the man lying before her had never had the occasion to see what robes of state looked like.

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispered.

The man twisted on his bedroll. “Please my Lady, please—”

Her face grew hot and her chest grew tight, eyes watering in her distress. How could the Regent and her uncle stand to see such sorrow? She was certain they encountered it when they left the safety of the inner city, and fervently wished that they were here with her. The Regent and his Steward would know what to do in her place, else she doubted they would be so beloved.

What _would_ the Regent do? Could he give a blessing that carried any weight with the Gods? She doubted it, but supposed that he was the recipient of pleas for absolution all the same. As stern as the man could be at times, she couldn’t imagine that he would reject such a heartfelt request.

 “I didn’t mean to deny you,” she said, finding her voice and kneeling beside Cassel at the man’s bedside.

The man’s eyes slit open, meeting hers through the haze of fever. “Please, for the safe passage of my soul—”

Cassel let out a quiet, pained sound. Fiona swallowed. This man was not long for their shores. “I don’t know what my blessing is worth,” she said, “but I can pray with you.”

Behind her, Jarmon and the guardsmen bent to take a knee. Cassel touched his fingers to his brow in quiet prayer. Fiona felt a distracting tug at her thoughts, the ripple effect of surprise and rumor spreading. She heard a rustle behind her, the sound of the tent flap opening, and knew that others had come to hear her words.

Fiona wiped damp palms down her robes, clasping her shaking hands before her in order to stay them. She had never led a prayer before. She doubted she would do Ranael’s priests much justice. Shutting her eyes, she tried to force the thrill of others’ curiosity from her thoughts and focus on her words.

“Ranael, master of the seas, storms, and safe passage over water – if you see fit to hear my prayer, please guide this gentle soul to your sister, the Captain of the _Ship of the East,_ on this final journey—”

She hesitated, scrambling for words. In front of her the elderly man relaxed, gnarled fingers splaying out to brush against the embroidered edge of her robes. A glance to her left and she saw that Jarmon wasn’t unaffected by the scene; a glance to her right and she met Cassel’s stare, wide and dark with the first spark of true hope.

Fiona shut her eyes once more, head tipping back as she continued her prayer, giving her best effort at the words that a priest would speak at a fading man’s bedside. She continued to pray even when his breathing slowed and evened out, speaking of her hopes for her people aloud, begging the Gods for the strength to aid them, praying that she would live up to the faith they had placed in her.

She couldn’t fail them.

Not this time.

…

Fiona paced through the courtyard of the House of Stewards, hands trembling with agitation as she looked through her notes. Who would she go to see? Her grandfather? Her uncle? Neither of them had given the sort of support to her claim as Arden had, and she didn’t doubt that they would be upset with her for going around both King and council to see her people.

Yet she had to do something, and start somewhere – she had sworn that she would bring aid. She turned with a huff, beginning to pace back across the courtyard in the other direction. Halfway through she realized that she had taken up one of the Regent’s most frustrating habits and forced her feet to still, breathing deep and shutting her eyes. She wouldn’t find any solutions this way, stalking around her House in frustration. She had to sit, had to think. She had spent the afternoon formulating a rough plan of action, and had to figure out who, Jarmon aside, would champion her proposal.

Fiona made for one of her favorite seats in the courtyard, a wide stone bench set beneath the boughs of a tall flowering tree native to Armathia. She didn’t know what it was called, but the gentle scent and large yellow flowers were always a balm to her frenetic thoughts.

As she reached the spot, however, she realized that it was already taken. There on the bench sat Alma and her newest friend, though Fiona belatedly admitted that ‘friend’ was perhaps the wrong word to use. Alec’s daughter, Lady Deanna, sat pressed against her sister hip-to-knee, their fingers twined. Deanna’s head rested upon Alma’s shoulder, lips moving with an endearment that Fiona felt but couldn’t hear.

Fiona froze at the shy smile that graced her sister’s face, at the happy bliss radiating from her as she pressed a sweet kiss to Deanna’s temple. The moment stretched like pulled taffy, something heavy and dark twisting within Fiona’s chest as she watched them press closer together. She forced herself to turn away before either saw her, striding back in the direction from which she came, parchment crumpled in a shaking fist.

Her feet took her straight out of the courtyard, up the marble steps, through the foyer, and out of the House of Stewards into the plaza. She strode mindlessly, finding herself winding through the myriad pathways of the inner city gardens, mind blank with shock. Her little sister. She had never known. Lord Alec’s daughter.

She felt ill. Her feet froze on the path, startling a bird with sunrise-bright plumage out of its perch. Her little sister, Lord Alec’s daughter. What was Alma thinking? How could she be so reckless, how could she—

Fiona pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes, surprised when they came away wet. For a vicious, selfish moment she hated her littlest sister. She resented the tender affection Alec’s daughter showered upon her. Guilt chased such petty thoughts from her mind, however, as she forced herself to pull back and _think._ She could never hate Alma. This had nothing to do with Alma.

This had everything to do with the brutal, all-consuming jealousy she felt at seeing one of her sisters find gentle comfort when her own love had been ripped away.

“Can nothing be easy?” she demanded. The bright-colored bird cocked its head at her.

She wished her uncle were here. He would know what to do – he would be able to talk to Alma, tell her to be careful, tell her to think hard about the decision she was making. He could tell her the price that came from not being the marrying kind.

Footsteps sounded on the path behind her, and Fiona turned to see Duke Edmund walking with an attendant. She shied away, having no desire to interact with the man in any capacity, and hurried her footsteps down another side path that she knew would lead her out towards the palace. Thoughts spinning in her mind – Alma, Deanna, her uncle, her people – she found herself scaling the palace steps, greeting councilors and courtiers as they passed.

She tugged at the parchment she held, smoothing it between her palms. With sudden clarity she knew whose audience she sought, and hoped that it wasn’t too late in the day to raise such a matter. Sleep wouldn’t come to her until she had spoken her piece.

Fiona steeled her will, veering towards the royal wing with a purposeful stride. She would speak to Alma later, perhaps Lady Deanna as well, if the situation called for it. For now she had other matters to attend to, and she could only hope that Alma was as cautious and thoughtful in her indiscretions as their uncle.

Letting out a haggard sigh, Fiona’s eyes titled heavenward once more. “Illen, please, I beg of you – no more surprises.”

A paneled door stood at the end of the hall, one she had never before visited. She straightened her sleeves, taking care to present a sight worthy of her station. At her knock, the door swung inward to reveal a liveried guardsman. He recognized her at sight and executed a deferent bow before turning to announce her presence. Fiona couldn’t catch the words that were said in response, but knew her visit had been approved when the door swung wide, revealing the bright colors of the Queen’s sitting room.

“She’ll see you on the balcony, my Lady,” the guardsman said, taking up his post beside the door once more.

Fiona forced herself not to dawdle in the sitting room, striding though the elegant linen curtains and out onto the flagstone balcony where the Queen sat watching the sun set over the plain. She wore her hair in a simple plait, raiment of a dowager Queen exchanged for a comfortable silken robe. Her dark eyes were kind as she turned Fiona’s way. “What brings you here at this hour?”

Self-consciousness reared its head and Fiona shuffled her feet, clutching the parchment to her chest. “There’s something I wanted to discuss with you, my Lady.”

The Queen swept a ring-adorned hand towards the empty chair at her side. “Why don’t you have a seat, then, and tell me all about it?”

“Thank you, my Lady.” Fiona hadn’t spent much time with the Queen since her arrival, yet despite the fluttering nervousness she felt at being in such a mighty woman’s presence, there was a familiarity about her that allowed Fiona to relax into her seat.

“Well?” the Queen prompted.

Fiona saw Valory in the Queen’s raised brow, the uptick of her lips, the watchful intensity of her stare. It wasn’t comforting, per se, but something about the resemblance made saying her piece easier. “Against advisement, I went to visit my people this afternoon.” At the Queen’s silence, she continued. “The conditions in the camps are awful, my Lady. There are too many in too small a space. Most have nothing to their names, and they are suffering.”

“You wish for me to do something about it?”

“I wish for your advisement, my Lady. You have lived through war before, whereas I have only the vaguest idea of how to remedy the ills I’ve seen.” She met the Queen’s eyes. “This is my problem to solve, but I don’t think I can do so without aid. I—” she flattened the parchment on the table between them. “Here. I’ve drawn up some ideas, but I don’t know if any of them are even possible.”

The Queen leaned forward in her chair, running a finger along the scrawl that spanned the length of the parchment. “You have passion for the cause.”

“They’re my people. I must do what I can for them.”

The Queen let out a quiet hum, giving each bulleted proposal due consideration. Fiona fought the urge to fidget as the silence stretched on, punctuated by the calls of Armathian shorebirds and the occasional snatch of conversation that drifted up from the courtyards below. She resisted the urge to wipe her sweaty palms on her robes when the Queen cleared her throat, turning back her way with an unreadable expression.

“These are your thoughts alone?” she asked.

“I was accompanied to the camps and discussed the state of them with my companion, but most of this is just what came to me after speaking with my contact down there. I know it must seem terribly naïve to you—”

“Both your inexperience and excitement are apparent,” the Queen said, cutting off Fiona’s contrite rambling. She turned to flag down the guardsman through the curtains. “You’ve come up with some ideas I’ve never before seen attempted.”

Fiona shifted in her seat. “I suppose much of it won’t work.”

“That’s not what I said,” the Queen corrected before turning her attention to the guard. “Have a tray of honey cakes and herb tea brought up from the kitchens, if you please.”

“My Lady,” the guardsman bowed before disappearing back into the sitting room.

“I hope you like honey cakes, Lady Fiona; I thought we ought to have some nourishment while working on your proposals.”

“You’ll help me?” she asked, voice squeaking with surprise.

“From all I’ve seen and heard, I can’t think of any who would do your office a better turn. Some of your ideas need refinement with a practical eye, of course, but this is more than any Armathian councilor has done to see Anaphe’s people safe and settled.” The Queen met her eyes. “Let none say you don’t deserve to carry the staff.”

“Oh.” A flush crept up Fiona’s cheeks. “Thank you, my Lady.”

“Please, none of that. My name is Persephone. Now,” she said, tapping at the first bulleted item scrawled across the parchment, “let’s get to work.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter edited as of 12/1/16 -- continuity edits.

_The Season of Renewal  
Illár the 24; 2422_

The city of Thorne was the largest settlement on Halen, located in a verdant valley on the island’s western side. The deep water harbor was home to a collection of watercraft flying both Oceanic and Sarian flags, its shores peppered with the fieldstone houses that were common south of the capital. Halen had similar topography to northern Ithaka, cliffs rising on either side of the valley. Dwellings had been carved into the cliff face over the span of hundreds of years, honeycombed facades boasting the granite-edged faces of mythical beasts and kings of old.

“What a sight,” Ehrin said, craning her neck around as they walked through the bustling marketplace. “I remember the last time we were here, but it was so long ago – it’s nice to see all of it with fresh eyes.”

“Incredible, isn’t it?” Arden agreed.

“And so _green_ – even the jungle can’t compare. I’m so jealous that you get to see the mainland. You’ll tell me all about it, won’t you? I want to hear everything about the people and their talents. And will you get recipes for me?”

Arden smiled, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “Of course, though if Lars is to be believed, Halen stands at the pinnacle of Sarian culture and cuisine.”

“Gods, he’s not talked about anything else for the past two weeks. He’s been driving me ‘round the bend.”

“I wondered why you were so eager to stay behind and help me tidy up the deck after the others ran off.”

“I couldn’t take it anymore,” she confessed. “I sent him off to the tavern where Da is meeting the pilot, hoping he’d get some of it out of his system by the time I arrived.”

“I suspect that tavern is a different establishment than the one in which Hammond and his men have passed the season, unfortunately.”

She eyed his fine, embroidered tunic with a critical eye. “You’ll be heading somewhere fancy, then.”

“After I meet up with Val.”

Arden suspected that the establishment Hammond had selected was somewhere nearby, for although they were in the center of a bustling foreign marketplace, he noted that his livery garnered few curious glances from the Sarians who passed. Ithakan traders were common enough in Thorne, he knew, and the population was largely bilingual as a result, but for his sigil to draw such little attention meant that he wasn’t the only Oceanic nobleman who frequented the area.

A flash of white caught his eye and he turned to see Valory at a stall across the small square, purchasing some sort of skewered meat.

“There he is,” Ehrin said, tugging at his arm. “Best catch up with him before he has them put sauce on whatever that is. You know he’ll drip it all over his fine silks.”

They were stopped halfway through the square by a Sarian merchant, arm draped with belts and harnesses of exquisite quality, each boasting a unique woven pattern. “ _Fine leathers for you, my Lord_.” Switching to Oceanic, he continued, “All at a special price for a man of your station.”

Though Arden admired Sarian leatherwork he found his eyes drawn instead to the merchant who was, he noted, as striking as his product – tall and broad, with wheat-colored hair that was uncommon in Oceana. Arden’s taste didn’t run to blondes, but the merchant was handsome enough that he had to admit that his preference left room for exception. The merchant’s attention was focused in turn upon Ehrin, who perused his wares while keeping up a running commentary of praise for his work.

Ehrin sent the merchant away after trying on several belts that were all too long for her waist. Arden shifted his weight to watch him go, only turning his attention back to Ehrin when she smacked at his forearm. “You’re looking, aren’t you? You’re not very subtle,” she warned.

“I’m flesh and bone, Miss Ehrin. Finely-made men are not below my notice.”

“But Valory is right there,” she said, nodding at the stall where Valory stood, chatting with a vendor. He must have felt their eyes on him, for he broke off and turned their way.

“Believe me, he’d have noticed that merchant as well. As my luck would have it, he takes a particular interest in Northerners.”

One of Valory’s rare wide grins split his face as he caught sight of Arden. Ending his conversation with the vendor, he started across the square in their direction.

“But you’ve got a man, yeh? And so does he.”

“Miss Ehrin, didn’t you just admire the fine craftsmanship of something you had no intention of buying?”

“Are you saying the Sarian has a finely crafted arse?”

Arden laughed. “Doesn’t he, though?”

“Well yeh, but—”

“Looking’s free of cost, so long as I mind my manners. It’s the purchase that comes with a price tag I’m not willing to pay.” He gestured at Valory’s approaching form. “Besides, it seems I’ve already invested in this finely-crafted arse over here.”

Valory, overhearing this last statement, put in, “Why do I get the impression that you just complimented and insulted me in one breath?”

“Is that a complaint?”

“Some men woo their lovers with sweet words.”

“Mm.” Arden’s eyes fell to Valory’s belt. “Your head’s big enough without sweet words plumping it up.”

At Valory’s wicked grin, Ehrin clapped her hands over her ears. “Gods, Jack – you and your horrible puns.”

Arden put on his best affronted face, clutching his chest. “Your mind’s in the gutter, Miss Ehrin! What would your father say?”

She gave his arm a playful slap. “Enough with you. I’ve got some errands to run—”

“Some fine craftsmanship to admire?”

“ _Jack_.”

“Alright Miss Ehrin, we’ll spare you from keeping company with us,” Valory conceded. “We’re set to meet with Lord Hammond in a few minutes’ time as it is.”

“Yeh, and I hope you got all of those filthy quips out of yer system – can’t imagine you trying them out on a fusty old diplomat.”

“He doesn’t, of course: he mutters them under his breath at me instead. I suspect he’s running an experiment to see if it’s possible to kill a man through stifled laughter.”

“Of course he is.”

“You can’t take that away from me, now – it’s the only thing that gets me through some of those meetings,” Arden protested.

“Good luck, my Lord,” she laughed, turning away with a wave.

“Alright,” Arden said as she departed, “where to?”

“There’s a place a few streets over this way that caters to wealthy mainlanders who spend part of the year on-island. Finer than a tavern, I’m told, and though they offer meals and drink it’s not the place for revelry.”

“About what we expected.”

“Just so. I don’t know Hammond well, but from what little I’ve spoken to him, he seems like the sort to enjoy the privileges afforded to him by his position.”

“Perhaps he’ll realize that we’ll be sleeping outdoors for much of the journey North and decide to stay on-island,” Arden said, hand circling Valory’s wrist and dragging it over to take a bite from his skewer. Valory indulged him without remark.

“We need him in the capital,” he said. “Like it or not, Hammond has forged relationships with many of the Sarian nobility, some of them Carlin’s fiercest detractors. The man is no fool. He can turn them our way.”

“He’s expecting us?”

“In the Swordfish House, I’m told – whatever that means.”

Arden nudged his side, pointing to the series of wooden signs at the far end of the street, each depicting a different sea creature. “The rental houses?”

“Good eye, Steward-mine.”

They strolled down the street, dodging foot traffic as they sought the right address. The Swordfish House was all the way at the end, which gave them enough time to finish Valory’s snack before pausing on the stoop to straighten one another’s attire. After adjusting Arden’s collar, Valory raised his hand to knock. The manservant must have been waiting just on the other side, for the door swung open just after Valory’s knuckles rapped against it the first time.

“My Lords.” The manservant was Oceanic, an Armathian cut to his livery and a Northern accent flavoring his vowels. “Lord Hammond is in the parlor, if you would follow me?”

The Swordfish House boasted simple yet elegant Halenic artwork and furnishings that Arden examined as they proceeded down the hall. It was clear that the townhouse, though a rental, was only ever occupied by wealthy mainlanders, and from the decoration and layout Arden supposed that Oceanic guests were few and far between.

The parlor was decorated with warm tones, an empty hearth standing in the center of a far wall. The curtains were drawn back to let the late morning sunlight in, bright and strong at this time of year. He and Valory were no more than a step into the room before Lord Hammond was out of his chair, sweeping into a deep bow before them.

“My Lords,” he said, fair skin and light eyes hinting at Northern heritage. Arden could feel the man’s signature in a gentle press upon his shoulders, and his eyes dropped to Hammond’s talisman, which marked him as an Elementalist.

“Lord Hammond, thank you for welcoming us on such short notice,” Valory said. “You know my Steward, Arden bar Miran.”

Hammond gave a deferential nod in Arden’s direction. “Of course, my Lord – though I’m not sure we’ve ever been introduced. I spent much time here on Halen as a young man, and I’m afraid things were too hectic upon the event of your return in Erád.”

Arden took an immediate liking to the man, not only for his smooth avoidance of the topic of Arden’s disappearance, but also for the affable, pleasant way he carried himself. His words also settled some of Arden’s lines of inquiry – namely how old the man might be, and what sort of an enchantment he had. Hammond’s thinning, greying hair would put him at least in his fifth decade, Arden supposed, though the middling talent would add another twenty years. That made easy enough sense, especially if he was already working in service of the crown when Arden was born.

“It’s a pleasure,” Arden said, offering his arm. Hammond took it with a pleased smile.

“May I offer you any refreshment, my Lords? We’ve an Oceanic vintage in the cellar, but if you’d rather have a local beverage—”

“Whatever you have will be fine,” Valory assured him, taking a seat as Hammond gave instructions to his manservant. Arden sunk down to his right, removing the handful of dispatches he carried from the pocket in his tunic and setting them down on the table.

Hammond settled in and leafed through the letters, all of which bore the King’s seal. “Shall I read the correspondence first, my Lord?”

“I can summarize. All of your aides but for those permanently stationed in Halen have been recalled to Armathia. We’re to Oldred to give Carlin his answer, then to the North to take him up on his treaty offer.”

Hammond drummed his fingers on the table, mouth downturned at the corners. “I’m surprised he consented to Carlin’s conditions.”

“The treaty in the West fell through. We’ve little choice but to bend to Carlin’s will. Far be it from me to question my brother’s decisions, however; he Sees much that I do not.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Hammond nodded. “And am I to accompany you?”

“My brother heeded your recommendation, yes.”

Arden had forgotten, for a moment, that he and Valory were in Saria because of Carlin’s fear that Hammond was a poor choice of diplomat to send North. That assertion seemed odd to him, for Hammond didn’t strike him as an abrasive sort at all. Grandfatherly, perhaps – but not at all unpleasant.

“I’m glad of it, and I’ll admit I am honored that you have agreed to let me accompany you. I’m curious to see what lies to the North. I only think it such a shame that our Lord the King must take a Sarian bride, instead of any of the fine Oceanic women he could have had in her stead.”

Arden cocked his head. “Have you any information about the Queen? We’ve heard nothing but rumor and conjecture.”

“Little,” Hammond admitted, “only that she has the provincial sort of talent that plagues the Sarian people.”

“Provincial?” Arden parroted.

“You know they worship Oreler, my Lord.”

“You refer to their talents of hunting and harvesting?”

“Yes, my Lord. Their devotion to Oreler makes them difficult to reason with.”

Arden’s mind raced through passages from the Book of Oreler, trying to conjure a clue to better understand Hammond’s position. He came up blank. “They have differing views than us on some matters,” he said, hoping his words were vague enough for Hammond to elaborate unprompted.

“And give little respect to those with high station as a result.”

“Ah, yes,” Arden said, cottoning on to Hammond’s line of logic, “they think men all occupy the same link on the chain of living things. It’s one of Oreler’s first tenets.”

“Shocking, really, that they would put a commoner and a King together as such – but there you have it. So although I do understand the tenuous nature of Carlin’s position, I have little sympathy for it. If that Book of theirs makes such claims, it’s small wonder the man struggles to control his provincial Lords.”

“You suspect we will be accorded little authority as a result?” Arden asked.

“Carlin will address you as equals, which would be no great hardship if all of his underlings didn’t insist on doing so as well.”

“Will it hamper our ability to sign this treaty?”

“It made my position difficult to navigate in Oldred. On Halen the attitude is not so pronounced.”

“Were you ever asked about your holdings in the Sarian court, Lord Hammond?” Valory asked, offering a brief nod to the manservant who appeared at his side with a carafe and a handful of glasses.

“Without pause.”

Arden nudged Valory’s ankle with his heel; Valory made a brief show of sampling the wine and deeming it acceptable before weaving an answer to Arden’s silent question into his next words. “I was last on the mainland some years ago, but it seems little has changed; a man’s position is determined as much by his holdings as it is by his title.”

“To be sure, my Lord,” Hammond replied, the curl of his lip demonstrating what he thought of such a practice. “They are a rural society and in many ways uncivilized – encouraged no doubt by the worship of the harvest god. It’s no wonder why we’ve always struggled to ally with them.”

Arden took a sip from his glass as soon as the manservant finished his pour. “Saria controls a great expanse of territory; Oceana does not. As Oreler’s children, it would follow that land ownership would be prized above all.”

“As you say, my Lord, though such logic has done them no favors.”

“And what of the land?” Arden continued. “Does it lie in the hands of the few, or the many?”

“Men of power and influence wield great tracts, but land is inexpensive, and the profit one can turn with the right talent is great. Many men own, and that ownership gives them voice,” Valory replied.

“And the King?” Arden asked.

“The King does not cultivate lands himself, no.”

“Is that customary?”

“Typically, yes – or such is my understanding, my Lord,” Hammond said.

“I see,” Arden mused. “If a King’s legitimacy is had through his title rather than his holdings, Carlin’s position is remarkably weak – for the title isn’t even his to claim.”

“Precisely, my Lord. It’s only his popularity that has allowed him to keep his immunity thus far. He has attempted to remedy the situation by bequeathing a generous sum of land to his eldest son, but some of the nobility think it a ploy.”

“They’d be right, wouldn’t they?” Arden shrugged. “All the more reason to make haste.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

Valory must have picked up on the same flatness of tone, for he remarked, “You seem displeased with our orders, Lord Hammond.”

“I mean no disrespect for the King’s word, my Lord. I’m only frustrated that such a backward people have us by the horns, and have made such an unreasonable demand of us in the process.”

The sound of shattering glass almost caused Arden to upset the table, hand straying immediately to his weapon. A woman’s voice calling for Lord Hammond, however – and Hammond’s complete lack of urgency – gave him pause.

“You must excuse me for a moment,” he said, pushing back from the table with a sigh. “Even on Halen it seems that Sarians fail to delegate the operation of their home and lands to others. They are unwilling to understand that it is beneath my position to attend to broken crockery.”

“You haven’t assigned your manservant to handle such matters?” Valory asked.

“It didn’t take. Apologies my Lords; I will be but a minute.”

As soon as Hammond passed through the doorway, Valory turned in his chair, bowing their heads together. “Well?”

“What do I think of him?” At Valory’s nod, he continued. “He has good intentions, but I can see why he clashes with the Sarian people. Doesn’t much like them, does he?”

“He’s Armathian through and through – and old Armathian, a man of your father’s generation.”

“They do both have similar sorts of ideas on how things ought to be done,” Arden agreed. “I can see how that would be the case with my father, who hasn’t set foot outside the city in years. I don’t understand Hammond, however. How could he spend so much time on Halen and still hold himself above the influence of Sarian culture? Even his _wine_ is imported from Armathia – which is, quite frankly, absurd.”

“I wonder if he knows that my mother insisted on serving wine from Halen at my wedding owing to its superior quality,” Valory mused. “He attended.”

“Perhaps he boycotted it on principle.”

That earned him a small smile. “That might be closer to the heart of the matter than you know. Hammond was part of the last delegation to Halen to attempt to negotiate trade agreements.”

“The same one you were sent to attend? Was he on the vessel with you?” Arden reached up out of reflex, fingertip brushing the furrow in Valory’s brow.

“He was already here. I suspect that he took their failure as a personal slight – one that came on the heels of Thun’s rejection of my father’s treaty some years earlier. It almost makes me wish that the Sea-Witch King were still alive, that I might gut him again for all the trouble he’s caused.”

“Do you really think your absence sank the negotiations?” Arden asked, taking another sip of his wine. “There’s not much discussion of the nature of social hierarchy amongst the Sarian nobility in the council chamber – even when a study of these matters would be useful. Knowing what I do now, I wonder whether the terms of the trade agreements – which seemed reasonable, even generous, to the council at the time – were ill-suited to the peculiarities of Sarian economics.”

“You may be onto something. I wish I had your memory, so I could review the terms of the agreement with fresh eyes. One thing I do remember is that many of Saria’s more remote provinces still used a barter system at the time. That was a particular point of contention, for we wanted them to standardize their currency.”

“And that’s one example among many, I’m sure. Who’s to say they must develop precisely as we have?”

Valory studied him for a moment, head tilted in thought. “While you have a point, I don’t think I need to remind you that no one family has held the Sarian crown for more than a handful of generations.”

“Does that mean our methods are right?”

“If they avoid civil war, then yes. When I traveled to the mainland it wasn’t on orders, but more out of curiosity. I spent little time in court; I found it worse than Armathia.”

“How so?”

Valory sipped at his wine. “Sarian landowners are presumptive and disrespectful. They thrive on undermining the King’s authority, a matter which is somehow permissible over there. I thought it foolish for Thun to permit his detractors to slur his name, but his talent was strong enough that he was able to win them when it mattered. It sounds as though Carlin can no longer do the same.”

“Governance based on merit.” Arden considered the thought for a beat. “It’s a strange concept.”

“One which doesn’t seem to work very well.”

“Perhaps, but I wonder whether or not our own methods would be different had Illen herself not named Eramen as King. Your lineage protects you in a way that no Sarian’s can.”

“Yours as well,” Valory reminded him. “Be that as it may, the Armathian council saw the flaws in the Sarian way and sought to shape their development in a different direction. Perhaps Sarian diplomats balked at the idea.”

“That would prove unsurprising.” He felt Valory’s stare land on him once more. In the hallway beyond, he could hear the muffled shouts of Hammond’s exasperation.

“Our demands are few this time around because of our need for military aid, but if circumstances were different, would you still tie Oceana to an alliance with a nation that refuses to rectify its flaws?”

“Why must we see difference always in the negative?” Arden challenged.

“If my father had bent to Thun’s will, the alliance would have obligated Oceana to march to war in the event of civil unrest.”

“Which history would deem inevitable. Very well, that would have been an inadvisable course. Yet I can see why Thun rejected the treaty. Why sign with a nation who wanted trade benefits and support fighting Dramor, but sought to eliminate the possibility of having to offer such support in return?”

Valory’s mouth opened and shut. “I don’t think that’s how my father meant it to appear.”

“We are all the centers of our own oceans, Val. The Sarian nobility would have seen the terms of the treaty through a different pair of eyes. We’ll not be able to forge anything more than a temporary agreement until the Armathian council does aught but demand compliance.”

“Then I’m glad my father didn’t sign the treaty. If he had, I suspect I’d have been in Saria raising arms in Carlin’s defense long before now.”

“A fair point, though it has landed your brother in an unfortunate situation,” Arden said, tapping the rim of his glass. “I’m curious, though – if you agree with Hammond in theory, what makes your politics so different in practice?”

Valory gave Arden’s knee a fond press, which he supposed had to do with Valory’s amusement at his tenacity. “I like Saria, for one, the ridiculous posturing of their landed nobility aside. I’ve also seen enough of foreign shores to know that, while their system is flawed, ours won’t necessarily work any better in its place.”

“You think they’d have to come up with something else entirely, to stabilize the interplay between the gentry and the government.”

“They are children of Oreler, not children of Illen – as you said. Our way isn’t the only way.”

“Or even the best way,” Arden continued.

“So we say – unless we’re arguing with one another,” Valory remarked, unvoiced laughter hovering beneath his words.

“Personal matters are different, Val,” he admonished, turning in his chair as he felt Hammond’s signature land upon his shoulders once more.

“My Lords,” Hammond said, sweeping into the room, “I apologize for the delay. One of the housekeepers broke a vase of some import and—” he broke off, shaking his head. “Small details, all. I’ll not trouble you with them.”

Valory’s hand withdrew from Arden’s thigh as soon as Hammond appeared. Arden felt its absence, rubbing at the spot where his palm had lain with his fingertips. Across the table Hammond seated himself, frowning as he realized he had placed his wine glass on a table just out of reach when he exited the room. Arden’s earlier curiosity regarding Hammond’s talent was answered as Hammond put his hand out, squinting with concentration, and drew the glass towards him with his thoughts to make up the difference.

“I had forgotten you were telekinetic, Lord Hammond,” Valory said.

“I’m not nearly your equal, my Lord,” Hammond demurred. “I’ve heard stories of your prowess.”

“Have you?”

“It was presumptuous of me to speak of it without your leave, my Lord – apologies.”

“None necessary; I only wonder what rumors are out there about by abilities,” Valory replied.

“Rumors I couldn’t say, my Lord, as I don’t turn an ear to them. Some years back, however – ten, perhaps fifteen – you passed this way to settle a dispute between a handful of Ithakan fisherman over the grounds near Devil’s Rock.”

“Crews from Halen were afraid they were stripping the stock below replacement capacity – I remember.”

“I heard that there was some commotion down near one of the big dockside taverns. The word was that you had taken one of those oaken slabs of a table – the sort that seats twelve – and thrown it clear across the bar with your thoughts to break up the brawl.”

“To break up a brawl, or to get out of one that you had a hand in starting?” Arden asked, smiling into his wine glass at both Valory’s mock-glare and Hammond’s scandalized gasp.

“It was Imran’s first assignment,” Valory admitted.

Arden laughed, almost inhaling a mouthful of wine as he did. “Gods, say no more – I think I can fill in the rest.”

“In his defense, he had no way of knowing that the serving girl was the daughter of the none-too-gentle giant sitting across the table.”

Hammond, at a loss of what to make of their banter, forged on with his original point. “It takes several men to lift such a table, my Lord; upon hearing the story retold by a man who had seen your strength, I knew myself to have not half of yours. Less, even. The most I can do is lift small objects that are just beyond arms’ reach.”

“Still plenty useful, I’d imagine.”

“I hope I didn’t sound ungrateful, my Lord; I do consider myself very blessed. But enough about my enchantment – you must wish to discuss matters of more import.”

“Perhaps it’s time to open the missives my brother sent to review the conditions of the treaty. _Windjammer_ will be ready to sail in two days’ time, and I’d rather we were of the same mind before heading out to sea.”

“No telling what the passage to the mainland will bring,” Hammond agreed, hesitating before cracking the seal on the first letter. “If we’re to settle in for the afternoon, my Lords, I can have more wine brought. Perhaps something from the kitchen as well, if it suits you. My cook has learned some Armathian recipes.”

Valory stretched his legs out beneath the table, beckoning the manservant forward to top off his glass. “That sounds like just the thing, Lord Hammond. I’m afraid we’re going to be here for a while.”

.

As proud as Félix was of his homeland, he had to admit that the Sarian language was more beautiful than Belenese by far. Each phrase had a lilting musicality to it, words combining to make it sound as though Sarians only ever spoke of love and hope and friendship. Although Félix knew this wasn’t the case, he was also aware of that language had the power to change the way one spoke. He sounded different in every dialect he knew, inflection and emphasis altered because of the way each syllable rolled off of his tongue.

Félix’s limited command of Sarian allowed him to enjoy overheard conversations without the distraction of context or subject. Those he passed could be speaking about the weather or gossiping about their neighbors for all he knew – it didn’t matter to him at all. He wandered down the tree-lined streets without any purpose or destination in mind, looking and listening as he went. He never thought he would come as far north as Halen, and if they were to spend only a pair of days in Thorne, he’d make the most of them.

Félix had just approached the open door of a flower shop when he was arrested by the sound of a woman singing, her sweet voice carrying through from somewhere inside the building. Without thinking much about his motivations he turned into the shop, noting as he did that Saria was one of the few places he didn’t have to duck to make it through a low-hanging doorframe.

The floor of the shop resembled some sort of overgrown, mystical garden; plants covered every conceivable surface, all in bloom, some large enough to brush fronds and petals against the worn wooden beams holding up the ceiling. The room was empty, but on the far wall a pair of open doors led out to an enclosed patio. There beside a climbing vine stood a Sarian woman, lovely by any standards, fingers trailing up the plant as she sang.

Before his very eyes the flowers along the vine began to bloom in time with her song, vibrant sunset-orange petals unfurling to span the size of one of his palms. He had heard rumors of Sarian god-magic, of course, but had given it little credence before his time on _Windjammer_. Even knowing what he did of the power wielded by men like Arden and Valory, he had still had a difficult time accepting Lars’ stories of his homeland. For all of his doubts here she was, the woman whose song could make flowers bloom.

If her talent was middling, as Lars had said, what in the river’s name could the powerful do?

The woman finished her song, cooing a few final words of praise and adoration at her blossoms before turning to face his way. She was pretty, he supposed, though her features were foreign to him – such light hair and eyes were an impossible combination in Madesta. He judged them to be of an age, but knew from speaking to Lars that she was likely to be his elder.

“ _What can I do for you_?” she asked, a welcoming smile transforming her features.

“ _Looking_ ,” he said, unable to express much more in her language. Her eyes lingered on his short-shorn hair, smile turning thoughtful.

“Oceanic?” she offered.

“Oceanic is better, yes.”

She had just started moving towards him when her attention was captured by another one of her plants. She reached out to run her fingers along a wilting leaf, humming a snatch of a tune until the plant stood proud once more. Félix knew the wonder must have shown on his face, for amusement radiated off of her when she turned back his way.

“You haven’t seen Oreler’s blessing at work before, have you?”

“I have not,” he admitted. “It is more pleasing than Oceanic magic.”

“And where are you from, to speak of the Oceanic and their enchantments so?”

He straightened. “I am from the West. A man of Belen.”

“You’ve traveled very far, man of Belen. You are a sailor?”

“Yes.”

Her smile grew soft. “As is my husband. He is off fishing the banks now, a long journey. I will not see him for some weeks.”

This much, Félix could understand. He had spent much of his life far from home and family. “May he have a safe return.”

“Do you have a sweetheart back home, man of Belen?”

“Not back home.” The words left his mouth before he could stop them, heat rising to his face as her smile stretched wide.

She spun on her heel, gliding back to the climbing vine he had admired. She cupped a single golden-orange blossom between her hands, plucking it from the vine with a whispered word of thanks. The blossom was presented to him with a flourish. “A gift for your sweetheart.”

“You are kind.”

“So she will say to you, when you give it to her.” She caught him looking back out to the street and laughed, a musical sound. “Go, man of Belen. You do not need to linger to show me thanks.”

He bowed his head before taking his leave, hoping that she understood his gratitude. By the time he was back out on the street, she had begun to sing once more. He took a moment to wonder what flowers were blooming now before starting back in the direction of the tavern.

It wasn’t until he was standing beneath the sign of the tavern that he gave thought to what he was about to do, and it rooted him to where he stood. Blossoms were not the sort of gift given between friends in Belen, and he doubted customs were so different on Kilcoran that she would fail to see its meaning.

Could he make such a statement of intent?

“You’ve got some timing, Félix – I’m just back from market myself. What have you got there?”

Félix shut his eyes, tipping his head back. This was the sort of thing that would have a man of Oceana cursing the Gods and their sense of humor.

“Félix?”

He turned to her then, heedless of the throngs of passerby or the eyes that could see them through the windows of the tavern. His stomach felt wrong, the same sort of twisting discomfort he knew from the moments before battle. He didn’t even bother trying to explain himself in Oceanic.

“ _I saw a woman with Sarian god-magic singing to her flowers to make them bloom. She was amused by my awe and spoke with me some. Her husband is a fisherman, away at sea. When she heard that he and I share a profession of sorts, she had me take a bloom to give to—_ ” he broke off, unable to repeat the words. “ _It is for you_.”

“Oh.” She reached out to touch a finger to the tip of a petal, an answering smile blossoming across her features. “It’s beautiful, it’s – thank you. Here,” she tugged at his wrist, “help me put it in my hair.”

He was glad to have something to focus on. Knowing that such a lighthouse-bright smile was meant for him did little for his resolve. He tucked the flower behind her ear, indulging himself in the luxury of trailing his fingers across her temple and through her hair to secure the stem. Returning his attention back to her upturned face, however, was a mistake: one that the realized as soon as he met her eyes. She was so lovely, his little warrior, and it took everything he had not to bring his lips down upon hers out here in the street, in front of the tavern for all to see.

Wrenching his hand away he took a step back, forcing some calm into his tone. “ _I am glad you like it_.”

“How could I not?” She slid her arm through his. “Now what d’you say we find the rest of the lads?”

He opened the door with a flourish, leading her into the tavern as he would escort a woman of standing into his brother’s court. Ehrin caught the intended humor in his gesture as always, shoulders trembling in silent giggles as they crossed the room to join the others.

 _Windjammer_ ’s crew sat on the far side of the tavern around a great table some inches thick and long enough to seat at least ten, perhaps more. Valory’s Northern officer was in the middle of a story, sweeping gestures almost knocking over his drink each time he made a point. He paused mid-sentence when he caught sight of them, waving them over with a shout of welcome. Félix pulled up a chair beside Jonah, noting as he did that the Sarian was nowhere in sight.

“Where is Lars?”

Jonah pushed a mug his way. “Off gallivanting with our channel pilot. They’re cousins three times removed, or something like that.”

“Spending the afternoon with some relatives, last I heard,” Little added. “Now as I was saying, it was this very here table that Val tossed across the room without even touching it, and you should have _seen_ the look on that bugger’s face when it took out all four of his cronies. Of course the man himself was a head taller than even me or Belen over here and madder than a bag of tomcats. By then it was three on one, though, Gabe still trying to calm the girl down and all, and we were able to take him.”

“Wait,” Ehrin cut in, “the Regent got into a bar fight? In this very bar? When was this?”

“Musta been eleven years ago now, right Imran?”

Imran grunted, taking another long draught from his mug.

“His very first mission and he gets his new commander into a bar fight, can you imagine? At least we knew from the beginning that he was shit with women,” Little continued.

“All of that over a girl?” Ehrin asked.

“To be fair, he had no way of knowing that the near-giant having a drink with his mates across the table was that serving girl’s father.”

“Imran, what in Illen’s name did you say to her?”

Imran huffed into his mug. “She presented her hand to me. I took it. I told her that she felt like a fish.”

“How could you _possibly_ consider that to be a compliment?”

At Imran’s scowl, Gabriel broke in. “His Oceanic was worse back then, for starters. I was sitting right next to him and remember overhearing some of his surface thoughts when he took her hand, about how smooth it was—”

“So is a fish,” Imran protested.

“Gods, how did you get that girl from the Black Wave to offer you a second shell? Did you sham at being a mute again?”

Imran muttered a string of Dramorian under his breath that Félix didn’t catch. “She told me she likes my difference.”

“She must have the patience of Fángon,” Jonah said.

Gabriel shook his head, a wide smile on his face. “She’s an Empath. She can’t hear his thoughts, but she knows his intentions. I was at the Black Wave with him before we left, heard him call her a dune. I thought she was going to choke on her beer. At the same time, she knew what he meant.”

“And what _did_ he mean?” Ehrin asked.

Imran folded his arms across his chest. “A dune is mighty. It has majesty, but it is not cold like the mountain. It is warm from the sun.”

“It’s also made of sand,” Jonah remarked.

“Yeh, but that’s . . . a surprisingly romantic sentiment,” Ehrin pointed out.

Imran grunted again, not dignifying her with a reply.

“Imagine that,” Jonah said, “Imran a romantic at heart.” As Imran’s cheeks began to redden, Jonah lifted his mug high up above the table. “To Imran bar Arrar – a lover and a fighter.”

Félix understood the answering string of Dramorian invectives this time, and suspected that the Lieutenant had been equally adept at starting disputes before he defected. He chose to let the matter lie, however. Struggling to find the right words in Oceanic was a plight he could sympathize with. Swallowing both lingering suspicion and pride, he raised his mug in salute. “ _To Imran’s majestic-desert-summit_ ,” he said, earning a sharp look for his words. Imran must have judged his words to be honest, for he lifted his mug, leaning across the table to get within reach.

“ _I will toast to that_.”

Félix took a long draught. He still couldn’t summon the will to trust the man, let alone like him – but he understood. For now, that would have to be enough.

.

“They’re in the one just up the road, yeh?” Callum asked, hopping over the cap rail and onto the dock with the ease of a lifetime sailor.

“Or so we were told. They’ll be in their cups by now,” Arden replied.

“Good for the lads to have a bit of fun while we’re here. We’ve got little enough to do, and it’ll be a hair-raiser getting to the mainland from all I hear, what with those murky seas and wind that blows straight down from the skies.”

The last thing Arden wanted to think about were sailor’s tells of downdrafts and other unnatural winds that were known for foundering vessels in Sarian waters. “All the more reason to raise a glass before we go.”

Callum saluted them as he backed away from _Windjammer_ ’s berth. “Thanks for standing watch, lad. I love my old girl, but I could use a night shore-side.”

“Enjoy yourself, Cap.”

Arden began his deck walk as soon as Callum left for the tavern. Valory followed him as he made his circuit, gait a shade unsteady from the bottles of Hammond’s wine they had emptied throughout the course of the afternoon and early evening. Arden, knowing that he would stand watch that night, had cut back long before Valory, and was in far better form as a result.

Though drink buzzed in his veins, he was clearheaded enough to help Arden tidy loose coils, dog the hatches shut, and replace the candle in the midships lantern. Those tasks done, it became evident that Callum’s words were no exaggeration; there was little else to do. Deck walk completed, they wound up seated together on the foredeck steps, pressed against one another from shoulder to hip to knee.

From their vantage point they could see down the deck and dock, both of which were empty. “How long has it been since we’ve had the boat to ourselves?” Valory wondered.

Arden stretched back, lying down next to the fo’c’sle hatch with his arms pillowed behind his head. “Bightton,” he said after a moment’s consideration, “during the refit after the Battle of Illen’s Arm.” He cracked a smile as Valory lay down next to him. “After that I think Callum started to wonder whether leaving us to our own devices was wise.”

Valory scooted over, pressing a kiss to the side of Arden’s neck. “Callum would be none too pleased to know we’re in our cups, as well.”

“A few bottles of fine wine won’t even come close to the shape the lads will be in right now. Besides, I daresay you’re the foggier of the two of us.”

“Unfortunate we can’t take advantage of their absence.”

“We’ll be relieved in two hours’ time.” Arden’s head dropped to the side, facing him. “I hope you know that you’re not expected to stand watch. If you’d rather head below, or make for the tavern with Callum—”

“Do you really think there’s anywhere else I’d rather be right now?”

Sweet words weren’t Valory’s strong suit, but wine tended to loosen his tongue. His only regret upon hearing them leave his lips was that it didn’t occur to him to say such things more often, for if the radiant smile on Arden’s face was anything to go by, his words had been appreciated.

Arden reached for him, rearranging their limbs so they could watch the ship, the dock, and the town beyond while settled in the circle of one another’s arms. Thorne was beautiful at night, low-lying buildings spread through the valley to one side, high-rising cliffs to the other. In the distance, torches lit the façades of the dwellings carved into the cliff face. Valory found his eyes picking out details of a relief here and there – a wing, half of a face, part of a pastoral scene. He had drunk just enough to fill his body with a hazy sense of well-being and found himself fighting against the sudden heaviness of his eyelids. It leant a mystical quality to Thorne’s cliffs, shapes blurring together as he felt sleep tug at his mind.

“You’re falling asleep.”

Valory struggled to rouse himself. “Shouldn’t leave you to watch alone—”

Arden’s smiling lips brushed against his brow. “Rest, if you’re tired.”

“I had meant to keep you company.”

“And you are – even if it means listening to you snore while we wait for Niko and Jonah to come back.”

“I don’t snore.” He shut his eyes, ignoring Arden’s silent laughter.

“Of course not.”

Valory’s attempt at a verbal protest came out as an incomprehensible mutter. This wasn’t how he had envisioned spending the evening, but the long visit with Hammond, their early arrival, and the drink all conspired to put him under the moment his head rested in the safe cradle of Arden’s shoulder. As sleep rose up to greet him he felt Arden shift, lips brushing his brow once more.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

They were the last words he heard before falling into a dreamless sleep.

.

Valory woke disoriented and wooly-mouthed, a crick in his neck and a sudden, uncomfortable awareness of the hard decking beneath him. He sat up with a groan and a stretch, hearing Arden’s voice somewhere amidships. He supposed it was the absence of his Steward that woke him – Arden was akin to a human furnace with his Northern blood – and nights in Halen were cooler than those in Armathia.

He figured it to be close to midnight, more than enough time for his earlier tipsiness to melt away into the dull ache that now sat behind his eyes. Pulling himself to his feet with a muttered curse, he trudged aft in hopes that Ehrin would have tea or coconut water somewhere in the larder. He was stopped just before the main companionway by Arden’s sudden appearance at the quarterdeck steps.

“You look like you’re regretting that last bottle right about now,” he said, an infuriating smirk spread across his face.

Valory grunted a reply, taking another step towards the companionway.

“Come here, I have someone for you to meet.” At Valory’s incredulous stare, he added, “Turns out the harbor pilot is one of Lars’ distant cousins. They’ve been ‘catching up’ at a tavern owned by another one of Lars’ relatives, so I doubt they’ll notice you’re not at your finest.”

“If I must,” Valory grumbled.

Arden led him aft to the helm where Lars and Callum stood with the Sarian harbor pilot. The man was slighter than Lars with a sailor’s wiry build. His face was open and loose with drink, rugged features turned soft with eager pleasure as Callum showed him around the quarterdeck. There was little familial resemblance between he and Lars aside from the thick, white-blond hair shot through with grey at the temples.

“She’s built well for the passage,” he was saying as they approached. “It looks like she’ll handle wind off her beam without a hiccup.”

“To be sure,” Callum agreed, alight with pride as he ran a hand along the spoke of the helm.

“The journey to the mainland will be a challenge, but she’ll rise to it,” Arden added.

“This is why I like merchants and mercenaries. Navy men get shuffled around too much, don’t have as much faith in their vessels. At least, that’s the way here,” the Sarian confessed. Upon seeing Valory stood behind Arden’s left shoulder, he extended his arm to clasp. “Theodore son of Osric. My family’s roots are in Elvford.”

Arden stepped in to make the introduction. “This is my Lord Valory bar Adrianth, Regent of Oceana, brother of King Siath.”

Valory knew better than to expect a bow from a mainlander, and took the man’s arm instead. “Well met, Theodore.”

“I go by Theo. You’ve chosen a fine vessel for your commission; Lars here assures me _Windjammer_ carries a hardy crew. Is this your first voyage to the mainland?”

“I’ve made the crossing a handful of times in past years. How long have you been working the channel?”

“All my life. I was apprenticed as soon as my talent started to develop, so – some fifty years. I don’t think we’ve crossed paths, though.”

“No,” Valory said, revising his guess of the man’s age. He was Lars’ elder by at least a decade. “I’d remember.”

“The trip through the channel can be hard to forget, with all the trouble it brings. I heard you’ve already had some of that on the way in.”

“I’m not a superstitious man, but even I take the appearance of sea-witches as a bad omen.”

Lars stepped up beside Theo, throwing a heavy arm around his shoulders. “Witches or no, we’ve got our own good omen standing with us right now, yeh? A pilot from Elvford, and one of my own clan.”

“So I’ve heard.” Valory pressed two fingers to his temple in an attempt to ward off his worsening headache. He caught Arden’s sharp glance, and knew his Steward had picked upon his discomfort. “How are you related?”

“Our mothers were cousins. Haven’t seen him in years, so you can imagine my surprise when I saw Cap chatting with him about our commission,” Lars beamed.

The sound of enthusiastic chatter reached Valory’s ears on the offshore breeze. From his vantage point he could see the approaching forms of the rest of his men and _Windjammer_ ’s crew weaving down the dock, buoyant after an evening at the tavern. Jonah led the way, of course, rolling a cask in front of him as he went.

“I take it you’ve decided to move the celebration dockside.”

Lars welcomed the rest of the crew back on board with a jubilant shout before addressing Valory once more. “We’re going to show Theo how _Windjammer_ celebrates a safe passage. It’s not as though we’ll get another chance until we reach Elvford, and even then—”

“We’ll have little opportunity for revelry. You approved this, Cap?” Arden asked, arching an incredulous brow.

“The lads are getting nervy about the passage – you know how they are,” Callum replied. “We’ve got a lot on our plate tomorrow, what with our plan to depart the morning after, but I figure we’ve done more while feeling worse.”

“True enough.”

Callum eyed him up. “Not that I’ve got any right to make demands of a Steward, but lad, I’d appreciate it if you’d stay in good enough form to oversee our provisioning.”

“No worries there – Val and I were just about to retire.”

“You can’t mean to bugger off now,” Jonah said, clomping up the quarterdeck steps with the cask perched on his shoulder. “We’ve got ourselves some proper Sarian drink.”

Valory felt Arden’s eyes fall on him once more, assessing. He knew his Steward was trying to beg out of the impromptu celebration on his behalf, and was grateful – he wanted nothing more than to collapse into their shared bunk. “We’ve had a long day,” he said, pausing mid-sentence as Jonah’s face fell.

Ehrin looked up from where she was tapping the cask. “You won’t stay, not even for one?”

Her plaintive tone gave Valory pause. Foggy-headed as he was, it took him another few moments of confusion before he realized why they were so adamant that he and Arden join their celebration: once they made land in Elvford, _Windjammer_ would sail without Arden for the first time in some twenty years. Guilt gnawed at him. It seemed unfair to pull away from the celebrations, especially if their presence could nurture morale before such a dangerous passage.

Arden’s knuckles brushed against his. “You’re shattered,” he murmured. “You don’t have to sit through this.”

Valory ran his thumb over the inside of Arden’s wrist in response. “I’ll not deny them your company.” He caught sight of Little’s big frame scaling a deck box to port of the main mast. He wasn’t in the habit of asking such favors – not for frivolities, at least – and grimaced with distaste as he pulled away from Arden to scale the deck boxes as well.

Little must have been listening into the conversation, for he turned Valory’s way with a broad smile splitting his ruddy face. “Need a little boost, eh?” He asked, vowels sloppy with drink. “Getting on in your years, can’t hold your liquor like you used to.”

“I’m honoring a request despite my misgivings. You’re not helping.”

“Alright, alright – give it here,” Little rolled his eyes, holding out an arm.

As soon as Valory reached out to clasp forearms he felt the ache at his temples deaden. Some of the fog from his head cleared, eyelids lifting as a fresh wave of energy washed through him. He pulled away with a pleased hum, glad to be rid of the weight of exhaustion while also mindful to not draw more than Little wished to offer.

“Thank you for this.”

“Yeh,” Little waved him away. “You can thank me by bringing me a mug.”

For a brief moment Valory contemplated what Lord Hammond would say if he saw Oceana’s Regent hopping down to the quarterdeck to fetch a common soldier a drink, but such thoughts were shoved aside by Ehrin’s delighted exclamation as she shoved a pair of mugs into his hands. After delivering the second mug to Little he rejoined Arden beside the helm where he was nursing a drink of his own.

“You could have told me why the crew was so keen to tie one on tonight, you know,” Valory murmured.

“I didn’t want to see you dead on your feet on my behalf.”

Valory nudged him in the side. “I’m meant to stand with you, aren’t I?”

“I’m not sure Eramen meant standing through dock watch and late-night revelry, but it’s appreciated nonetheless.” Arden favored him with a sly smile. “I suppose I owe you, now.”

Valory’s lips pulled up to return it of their own volition. “I suppose so.”

The crew had begun to toast around them, Jonah capturing all of their attention with one of his clever – if filthy – rhymes. Arden raised his mug as the punchline was delivered. “I’ll make it up to you later,” he promised, words swallowed by the others’ raucous laughter.

“I don’t doubt it.” Valory draped his arm across Arden’s shoulders. “Now Jonah,” he called, “I was promised revelry – where’s your fiddle?”

Jonah’s face lit up with boyish delight at the request. Shoving his mug into Ehrin’s hands, he nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to fetch the instrument. Beside them at the helm, Theo gave a satisfied nod. “A fine crew you’ve got here, Callum. We’ll have us a nice little trip to the mainland.”

“They’re good lads,” Callum agreed, raising his mug for another toast. “As for the journey through the channel, well – let’s hope your words reach Ranael’s ears.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited 12/1/16 -- continuity edits.

_The fifth waxing month: 26, 5_

_“Sybina.”_

_She spread her arms, welcoming the cold slither that wound around her thoughts, rifling through recent memories. She was more attuned to such visits of late, having sought them with increasing frequency, and felt the faint pulse of approval at the back of her mind as her Lord decided that her service had been to his liking._

_Though she was still faintly aware of the prayer bench beneath her knees and the flickering light spread throughout the hall, it felt as though she had been spirited elsewhere. A series of images played through her mind’s eye, and she realized that these were not her own memories that Zathár was browsing, but rather, memories of others that he had chosen to share with her._

_“My father,” she realized, recognizing the source of the images. Something selfish twisted within her. “I didn’t know he had the strength to speak with you so directly, my Lord.”_

_“He does not.”_

_Another cold press and she knew without being shown or told that these memories had been pulled from her father’s sleeping thoughts, and that such contact had cost her Lord no small amount of effort._

_Dismay swelled within her as the flurry of images paused on a familiar face. “The Regent lives.”_

_“He is proving difficult to kill.”_

_The wry tone of voice took her by surprise. She felt her body grow lax with relief; she had been certain that her Lord would place the failure to dispatch the Regent upon her shoulders. It seemed that her Lord had chosen to show her yet another unearned mercy. “My father?”_

_Another few images passed through her thoughts, a cold swipe following in their wake. Her father was well, hale, acting his part with the same precision as he always had. Suspicion had fallen upon him due to the Regent’s unfortunate survival, but he had managed to cast that suspicion onto Lester in turn._

_“The children of Eramen exercise more caution, now, but your father still has his orders. He has sworn to fulfil them.”_

_The spires of Armathia’s cathedral shimmered before her eyes and she recoiled instinctively before her mind was grasped by impenetrable cold. She forced herself to calm, allowing her Lord to guide her thoughts up the aisle of the cathedral, past the altar, and through the archway where the tunnels began._

_“I see.” She had known that her father would be charged with this task, and was glad that he remained steadfast even with the King’s eye fixed upon him and his seat in council suspended._

_“He is a good soldier, though he lacks your strength.”_

_Pride burst within her, and she heard a dim rustle in the room where her body knelt, amongst those who witnessed her vision. Whispers of gratitude reached her ears as they recognized the smile that lit her features as a sign that their Lord spoke through her._

_“What other orders do you have, my Lord? I will see them done.”_

_“Lend me your strength.”_

_She gave herself over to service then, felt the cold expand through her thoughts, felt words fall from her lips that were not her own. Visions of brilliant, bright victory bloomed in her mind’s eye, superimposed over the men and women who knelt before her in the long, torch lit hall. She was held upright with strength that wasn’t her own, spoke flawless verses in Old Dramorian she ordinarily struggled to pronounce. Lost in the euphoria of having their Lord spread his word through her she was unaware of the passage of time, coming to only as his presence began to fade._

_“Remain steadfast, Sybina.”_

_“My Lord—”_

The cold presence faded from her thoughts and she slumped, exhausted, sliding from the prayer bench with a cough. A pair of hands caught her around the shoulders before she fell. Her head lolled sideways, cheek pressing into studded leather as Alvar’s intervention prevented her from sliding to the ground. Ears still ringing from her vision, she could hear the muted murmurs of fervent prayer coming from the hall and smiled. Though she felt as though she was moving through water, she still summoned the energy to lift her hand in benediction, a cough wracking her frame as she did. Her Lord had taken much from her, but it was no more than she was willing to give.

“ _We must bring you to your restful-place_ ,” Alvar said, words rumbling beneath her ear.

“ _Yes_ ,” she agreed, standing with his aid. One of his arms slipped around her and he guided her from the hall towards her rooms.

“ _You do too much_ ,” he said the moment they were out of earshot of the others. She could feel the stiffness in both his tone and his frame.

“ _Did my words displease you? I felt their meaning but I could not hear their true-sounds_.”

A frustrated noise escaped his throat. “ _Our Lord spoke through you again. Your words were humbling-remarkable, but they have taken much from you_.”

“ _Our Lord spent much of his new-strength gathering information from Armathia. My father remains poised to carry out his assigned-duty, but the Oceanic are suspicious of him still._ ”

“ _My brother used to carry such messages as well_ ,” Alvar said, letting them into the sitting room of Sybina’s suite. “ _I was deep-proud of him, for his position was one of great honor. Yet I saw what such taking of strength did to his body. He was body-weak even then, and if Zathár has continued to use his strength to rise, I know he must be even weaker now._ ” He helped her into her favorite wingback chair as a small grey tabby wound around their ankles. “ _It is difficult for me to watch you succumb to the same body-weakness._ ”

Sybina tipped her head back against the chair, unable to find the strength to bend down and pet her kitten. “ _Do you not think this is a cause worthy of sacrifice_?” Her words were swallowed by another cough. Alvar turned away, fetching the jar of salve Lord Olivier’s physicians had made to ease her breathing.

“ _That is not what I meant. I know this is a great honor-calling. Only_ —” He set the jar down on the table beside her. “ _It is a test of my heart-strength, to watch those around me make great sacrifices when I have yet to do aught_.”

“ _Your time will come_.”

“ _I am not holy-marked as you are. Waiting is not my strength_.”

She smiled, fighting down another cough. “ _Patience is a virtue, Lord Alvar_.”

He knew her words for the gentle tease that they were, for his features lost some of their sharpness as he took a seat at her side. “ _I’m not the most virtuous of men_.”

“ _False-modesty is unbecoming of a General of Zathár_ ,” she replied, drawing amusement from him in turn.

“ _Very well_ ,” he conceded, pushing the pot of salve towards her. “ _What can I get you? Some more of the herb-tea suggested by the Belenese warrior-surgeons? Food to keep up your body-strength_?”

“ _Tea_ ,” she agreed, tucking her knees up beneath her skirts. Her kitten leapt up onto the armrest of her chair, butting his little head against her elbow.

“ _As you command_ ,” he said, a shade of a smile hovering over his lips before he ducked back into the hallway to carry out her request.

She shut her eyes, stroking her fingers through her kitten’s soft fur. Alvar was a fine man, noble and dedicated, attentive to her in ways she never would have dared hope from a man of his station. She was young but not wholly naïve, and she saw that there was warmth in him that wasn’t there when he looked upon others. It was a warmth that Valory’s ice chip eyes had never held for her, a warmth she had always professed to want – yet now that she saw it she found herself unable to act.

She thought of Valory often. He hovered like a specter at the edges of her imagination – especially when she looked upon Alvar. It seemed blasphemous to compare a General of the Lord with a man so tainted but she couldn’t help but see the similarities between them, and though she reclaimed more and more of the part of her heart she had given to Valory day by day, she couldn’t deny the thickness she had felt in her chest upon learning that he had survived the trip to Armathia. It was a tangled knot of both disappointment and relief: a difficult conflict to parse.

Though it served to make her unsure of her own heart, she was glad that the warmth in Alvar’s eyes was too new and fresh for her to act upon. It was too much, and she too tired. Another cough rattled through her, making her chest ache. She patted her kitten’s head once more, letting her eyes fall shut, pulling the cold presence in her mind all around her. She could visit with her Lord while she dozed, waiting for Alvar’s return.

It would sap her strength further, but what did that matter? For now, the cold press was all the company she needed.

…

The delta where the Anaphean peninsula met the coastal midlands was the first sight of Oceanic countryside that inspired any sort of admiration in Olivier, who didn’t care much for the arid plains he and his men had crossed along the way. The river was flat and wide, much like Belen’s own in color and character. Like Belen, the river was dotted with settlements and bridges as it narrowed and pinched to the west. Unlike Belen, these settlements were empty – devoid of life following the evacuation of the peninsula.

These abandoned towns and villages were not their prize, though the Dramorian General had allowed Olivier and his men to take what they would from them. No, their ultimate aim laid nestled in the hills to the north of the delta, an age-old fortress of stone that marked entry into an ancient kingdom, now one of Oceana’s many provinces. Olivier could see the tactical potential of taking such a stronghold; its position was ideal for moving supplies and sheltering armies on the long march to Armathia.

The march wouldn’t come for another season – the Dramorian General had implied as much. Olivier knew it for superstition, to avoid laying siege to Armathia during the months of the year when their gods were supposed to be at their strongest, and scoffed at those who would worship a creature who cowed to such baseless fears. It was with reluctance that he acknowledged the soundness of the General’s plan to conquer and hold outposts along the thoroughfare; he’d be a fool to pretend the man lacked a sound military mind.

It was that soundness of mind that had spurred him to send Madestan warriors to take this newest outpost; he had presumed that Olivier’s familiarity with overcoming riverbank defenses would aid their cause, and he had been correct. The Oceanic coast hadn’t seen war in centuries, and as such it took little effort for Olivier’s men to overcome the resistance they put up. Conceit had prevented them from evacuating with their neighbors: they had expected the walls of their fortress of stone to protect them, and that conceit cost them.

Olivier had accepted this assignment gladly, knowing it for an excuse to escape Anaphe’s walls. He wouldn’t have been so eager had he known that the Dramorian would send Zathár’s armies to fortify his numbers. As a result the march northward had been insupportable; the creatures’ agitation had grown with each empty settlement they passed. By the time Olivier’s first scouts sighted the river delta on the horizon, the empty-eyed things were nipping at the heels of his infantrymen. It had taken every ounce of his not-inconsiderable oratory skills to convince his men that Zathár’s foot soldiers would do them no harm.

It was a promise Zathár himself had woven into the cold pressure that beat at his mind in those dreams.

Olivier watched from his position with the rear guard as the gates of the fortress toppled. He tracked the progress of the seething mass of creatures from afar as they forced Madestan warriors to the side in their haste. The empty-eyed things had the shape and form of men but they were no such thing; they moved with the speed and brutality of ravenous beasts, setting upon the first line of Oceanic defense with blades and bludgeons and bare hands.

Through his spyglass he saw a creature leap past a Januzian soldier to launch itself at its prey, running the Midlander through with enough viciousness to compensate for its lack of precision. Olivier expected the creature would toss the body aside and move onto a new victim, and was horrified when the thing grasped the dying man by his hair, bearing his throat to a set of sharp, bloodstained teeth.

Olivier lowered his spyglass, swallowing past the sudden urge to be sick.

He had heard tales of what the creatures were like in battle – had even seen the aftermath of the havoc they wreaked upon Anaphe – but nothing could have prepared him for the sight of the things setting upon the fortress’ defenses with such speed and violent fury. Olivier’s thoughts turned unbidden to the words Félix had shared with him after the tribal council. He had been unable to believe his brother’s testimony at the time; the tale had seemed too fantastic, his vivid description of a razed border village too appalling to be aught but depraved fiction. It made Oliver’s blood run cold to think that there may have been no exaggeration in Félix’s account. After all, of all of the things his brother was, Oliver had never known him for a liar.

This was a different kind of warfare than he had ever seen, and he wanted no part in it.

As the fortress’ defenses tumbled, the slaughter began in earnest. Where a normal man might have stayed his hand and granted mercy the creatures pressed on, destroying any living thing that stood in their path. Olivier grit his teeth, biting back the bitter tang of disgust that crawled up the back of his throat. No command from his lips could tempt the creatures to moderation – that much he knew – and for a brief moment of insanity he entertained the thought of gathering up his men and fleeing.

“ _Lieutenant_ —”

His eyes were upon his second-in-command before he had fully weight the consequences of such a move. The order never left his lips, but it hardly mattered – his second-in-command had fought by his side for years, and they knew the lines and creases of one another’s faces well. Doubt that mirrored Olivier’s own was etched into brows of his brother-in-arms, doubt enough that Olivier twisted in his saddle to look upon the Dramorian soldiers who had been sent to keep him in check. Of all the expressions he expected the Dramorian officers to be wearing it wasn’t stony resignation. Something uncomfortable shifted within him. It was a strange day, when he found some solidarity with a damned sand-eater. If even men of the desert found such allies difficult to bear—

 _No_. Olivier shook his head hard, standing taller in his saddle. _We’ve come this far. We will have our freedom soon. Whatever my misgivings, whatever horrors I must witness_ —

He couldn’t complete the thought, not even in the privacy of his own mind. It had never bothered him, in theory, that he was pitting the freedom of his people against the slaughter of the Oceanic. Something about the reality, about having to witness the consequences of his decision, proved more difficult than he had expected.

After all, which was the greater evil – the senseless violence of Zathár’s creatures, or the ambitions of the men who would use them to do their own bidding?

Yet was it truly evil if it put to rights the damage done to his people all those years ago?

Olivier couldn’t turn tail now, not at the moment his decision became a trying one, not the moment he came to realize that seeing it through would be an unsavory task. He couldn’t break the alliance his family had given everything for, no matter the consequences. His people came first. But more than that—

He knew he couldn’t defy the being that commanded these creatures. A shiver wracked his frame as he remembered the cold press that had held his mind like a vice the lone time Zathár had visited his dreams. It wasn’t an experience he wished to repeat.

Whatever his misgivings, he couldn’t run the risk of incurring Zathár’s wrath.

“ _Is everything alright, my Lord?”_ his second asked, finally breaking the silence that had stretched between them.

Olivier shook his head. “ _It’s nothing_ ,” he said. “ _Carry on._ ”

…

Sybina woke from her doze at the sound of footfalls and knew that someone had entered her chambers. Before her time in Anaphe she never would have been the sort to assume ill intentions in another – even in an unannounced visitor – but the past months had changed her. She had become the sort of woman who had enemies.

Her attempt to sit up was forestalled by another coughing fit, straining the tender muscles that wrapped her rib cage. In the end, all she could do was twist around on the day-bed where she lay to meet the intruder face-to-face.

“ _My heart-apologies, Lady Sybina. I didn’t mean to wake you_.”

Sybina let out a wheeze of relief; it was only Alvar. Ever since their triumph in Anaphe her Lord had visited her in her dreams, and so she woke from sleep with little sense of the passage of time. “ _I only wake-slept for a moment_ ,” she murmured, trying to pull herself upright.

“ _A moment? You deep-slept for more than an hour before I left to attend to business_.”

Boosting herself up to her elbows, Sybina regarded him with a critical eye. Alvar had foregone the sharp edges of his uniform for simple linen woven in a bright pattern, open at the collar and loose down his arms. “ _The day has ended_?”

“ _Arrar has guided the sun past the land’s lowest rim. I was out on the fields, overseeing my battalions as they conducted their exercises. Your handmaids came to me and told me that you were missing-absent for the meal_.”

“ _They should have woken me_.” She strained to push herself up to sit only to fall back onto her elbows as another coughing fit wracked her chest. Alvar reached out to steady her, pressing a pillow against her aching ribs for support.

“ _You are unwell_.”

“ _It is not the fault of your warrior-surgeons, Lord Alvar. I have come to know that look of yours_.” She paused for breath. “ _They have done much for me. Spare them your misplaced-anger_.”

The line of Alvar’s jaw grew tight. She lay a hand on his arm to gentle him, resting her forehead against his shoulder as he wrapped an arm around her back to lift her upright. “ _I am heart-troubled that you cannot fight the water-sickness. I know not what else to do_.”

“ _Have faith_ ,” she said. Something clenched and released in her chest when he moved to sit next to her, holding her up and letting her rest against him. “ _My water-sickness is not something that you must fix_.”

It was plain that her words pained him, but he made no outright reply. She let him support her weight, neither moving nor protesting when his arm dropped from her shoulders to wrap around her waist. She hadn’t received comfort like this in so long – not since she was a little girl, and her father sat vigil at her sickbed – and she hoped that her Lord wouldn’t grudge her the pleasure and peace she found in it. The warm press of linen and skin against her cheek was so different from her Lord’s cold touch; yet Alvar was one of his generals, she reasoned, and surely there could be no harm or shame in letting a man of true morals and convictions draw near to her.

This wasn’t Valory. She could let herself breathe around him.

“ _I hope you don’t think my heart-troubles over your health stem from a lack of faith_ ,” he said. “ _If this is our Lord’s will_ . . .”

She could hear the hesitation in his voice. “ _It is a mark of our devotion that we remain steadfast-dauntless even in the face of great hurt-challenge_ ,” she replied.

“ _I could learn as much from you. Steadfastness is a mark that you wear_.”

Her hand strayed to her mother’s pendant, tracing the inscription with a tip of a finger. “ _My father gave this to me before I left Armathia. It was my great-grandmother’s. She was a mighty-fierce woman_.”

“ _She was Anaphean_?”

“ _She was desert-born_ ,” Sybina corrected. “ _Indarian. She received an offer of marriage from the family of an Anaphean man during the war that took the peninsula from us. She accepted the offer even though she knew it could doom her to live out an Oceanic occupation in silent-secrecy. She knew she would be close-watched, that she could not worship in public, that she and her family would be hunted and killed if they were discovered. She could not even be heart-certain that the son who wanted her for his wife wasn’t an Oceanic sympathizer._ ”

“ _And she accepted the offer even knowing what she did_?”

Sybina bristled at his incredulity. “ _She was a woman of true-faith, and she knew that she would be needed. This was her calling, and she remained steadfast-dauntless. Before she left the ancestral land she made a pilgrimage. The sands of Arrynmathár are inside her locket, and they gave her strength._ ”

“ _Forgive my ill-spoken words. I did not wish to question the heart-devotion of your family_ ,” Alvar apologized, arm tightening around her waist.

His words calmed her, a breathy cough escaping her throat as she let go of the tension that had crept into her neck and shoulders. “ _I am harsh-protective of her name_ ,” she admitted.

“ _As you should be_.”

“ _Yes, for she was marked for greatness. Anaphe fell to the Oceanic after she arrived. She was forced to worship in secret, but that did not stop her. The women of her family remained true in heart, and her granddaughter – my mother – found my father amongst the circles of Anaphe’s true-believers. Theirs was a union blessed by our Lord, for all they did was in his name._ ”

She paused to cough once more; Alvar rubbed soothing circles into her back. “ _What became of your mother_?”

Sybina shut her eyes. “ _She died of fever-sickness when I was a little girl._ ”

“ _The Oceanic did nothing to aid her_?”

“ _Whatever aid they provided was not enough. It was during a time of unrest, and medicine-men were hard to come by. My family fell under suspicion, and few were willing to help my mother. My father did what was necessary to pull us from Anaphe and come to power in the Armathian court. He knew it was the only way to help our Lord’s will live on._ ”

“ _His name is held in high-honor by the court in Indar._ ”

To hear such praise for her father pleased her. “ _He has earned such words. He raised me well, and always in secret_.”

“ _He is the father of a prophetess. His high-honor is beyond reproach_ ,” Alvar assured her. “ _Did he know_?”

“ _Know that I was one of our Lord’s chosen_?” Sybina asked. “ _No. He had never questioned my true-devotion, but the strength of my call came as a joyous-surprise_.”

“ _He must have been deep-proud. Did you know, at the time, what your words had done? Did he?_ ”

“ _I didn’t know what to think, at first. It happened on the sea-god’s day almost two years past, and I wanted no part in the blasphemous-revelry of the Oceanic. I stayed in my room and prayed, and that was the first time I felt it – deep-cold all over, dark behind my eyes, a brush against my thoughts. I gave myself over to it and woke on the floor some hours later. I heart-knew I had touched our Lord, but couldn’t let myself believe it. It wasn’t until a few days later, when he had gained the strength to break words with me, that I understood what I had done._ ” She paused, a flush of pride coursing through her as she remembered those first few days after her Lord had answered her call. “ _Was it the same with your brother_?”

“ _My brother is a priest of Arrynmathár. He never doubted his call._ ”

“ _He is heart-strong and brave, then._ ”

“ _Not only he_ ,” Alvar said, turning to level her with a significant stare. “ _Both you and Obed were destined for greatness_.”

“ _You, too, are one of our Lord’s generals_ ,” she reminded him.

“ _But I am not holy-marked as you are. Had I felt what you did that night in prayer, I do not know what I would have done. There would have been much fear in my heart_.”

“ _You would have let him take what he needed. You are heart-strong_ ,” she insisted.

“ _Perhaps_.” He looked away, eyes focusing on a spot on the far wall. “ _I do not grudge-envy my brother’s place. It is his honored-role to have. He is steadfast-devoted as you are, pure of heart and spirit. He always has been_.”

She made the appropriate noise of agreement, though she felt as though there was something on his mind that he wasn’t telling her. “ _Were you with him in Arrynmathár when he made his call_?”

“ _No. I was near the Oceanic border suppressing the petty-small rebellions of Arrar’s children. I received correspondence from Obed and my father telling of ground-tremors and night-visions, and made the pilgrimage with haste. It was a heart-joy for me to see Obed once more, though difficult to find him so body-weak_.”

“ _Our Lord took much from us, that first time_ ,” she murmured.

“ _Yes_ ,” a frown creased his brow, “ _he did_. _Yet Obed did not carry his body-weakness as a burden, and would not let me consider it to be such. I was with him when the ground opened up before the gates, a deep-crevice as though something had cloven it down to its very core. It was like nothing I had ever seen. I don’t think I have the words to do it justice – what it was like to watch the deep-locker-chasm open up beneath the hot-copper sky._ ”

“ _Did you know it was the doorway_?” she asked, tempering some of the excitement in her tone; she didn’t want to fall into another coughing fit.

“ _Yes. I fell to my knees beside Obed. We swore our allegiance to our Lord, though I could not hear his voice as Obed could_.”

“ _It must have been breathtaking-terrifying_ ,” she said, a wistful smile lighting her face at the thought.

“ _It was a sight: the jewels of Arrynmathár standing proud-strong above the dark-cold of the locker_.”

“ _Perhaps I will see it myself, someday_.”

Alvar’s throat bobbed with a swallow, but he didn’t reply. She could imagine what he was thinking – that she was too ill to make the journey, and that nothing any Dramorian or Western medicine man tried had made her better. She knew he worried that his brother faced similar difficulty and didn’t have the heart to tell him that it was so; she saw flashes of Obed’s bedridden form in her visions from time to time. Giving Alvar such news would only upset him further.

“ _Don’t be afraid_ ,” she said. “ _I’m not_.”

“ _You are—_ ” he hesitated. “ _You are very body-sick, Sybina._ ”

A wan smile pulled at her lips. “ _I know_.”

“ _I do not know if you understand the severe-risk of the water-sickness. If we do not cure it, it will only get worse. You could_ —”

“ _I could die_ ,” she agreed. “ _Yet our Lord has promised us life eternal within his kingdom. I grow body-weak from water-sickness, but I am not afraid. Why should I be? If I die, I will not be parted from this world for long_.”

He lips pulled upward at her words, but his smile was small and strained. “ _I know that_ ,” he said, eyes sliding away from hers to land on the far wall once more.

“ _Don’t you believe_?”

“ _Of course I do, Lady Sybina. I trust in the promises of our Lord_.”

Yet as he spoke his eyes remained on the far wall, and the hand that wasn’t wrapped around her waist curled tight into a fist. His words were those of a man of faith, but the crease between his brows said otherwise. Alvar often told her that he believed when she grew worried that he was doubting. For the first time, Sybina began to wonder whether or not he truly did.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major (MAJOR) edits as of 12/1/16. Would recommend rewinding a few chapters to get back into it, because I largely ripped apart the climax of this story before putting it back together again with some serious changes.

_The Season of Heat  
Fanád the 2; 2422_

Fiona lifted up her teacup to take a slow sip, noting with a grimace that it had left a ring upon one of the many documents strewn across her sitting room table. The irony of the state of her rooms wasn’t lost on her – it was only a few weeks ago that she made fun of her uncle for the haphazard piles of paper scattered about his desk, after all. Unlike her uncle, however, the clutter before her was less a product of habit and more a reflection of the untidiness of her thoughts.

She hoped it didn’t appear too slovenly to the women of considerable lineage who deigned to take tea with her; it had taken much effort for Persephone to persuade them to meet with her, and she’d hate to think that so silly a thing would make a lasting impression – especially after the hour she had spent laying out her argument using only the careful niceties that were the bread and butter of the courtyard, but foreign to the council chamber.

“I think we wish for the same things, Lady Fiona,” one of the women was saying – a cousin of the King’s, if Fiona remembered correctly. “But of course, we lack direction.”

“Direction is what I can provide – to the best of my ability, at least,” she said.

“If you champion the cause, I think it’s one that many Armathians will get behind,” Lady Deanna spoke up.

“Are we in agreement, then?” Fiona asked.

“The Anaphean people must be removed from the plains, both for their sake and for ours,” Deanna replied. It was the most forthright statement of the afternoon, yet despite its boldness, her words were met with agreement all around the table.

Fiona struggled to hide her relief behind a mask of poise and composure. “For that, I think I may have a plan.”

“One which was supported by the Queen, or so I was led to believe when I received my invitation to join you for tea this afternoon,” the King’s cousin put in.

Fiona spread out a sheaf of papers before her, eyes skimming over her notes out of habit even though she knew what she wanted to say by rote. “I have the Queen’s endorsement, yes, though I’ll not mislead you: such endorsement wasn’t won with her gift of Sight. Neither of us know whether this attempt will be successful – but I can’t help thinking it would be foolish not to try.” She looked up to meet the eyes of the assembled women, each of them wed to powerful men or born to power in their own right. “I’ve spent the past several days studying the Armathian peninsula’s most recent census data, collected some two years past. It seems promising. I think it may be possible to rehome the entire population of the refugee camps within the towns and villages of this province.”

“You don’t think the refugees will overwhelm them just as they’ve overwhelmed us?” Deanna asked.

“Not if this is done properly. Alma?”

Alma’s head lifted from where she was bent over her slates, neat calculations worked out in columns and rows of precise white chalk. “Lord Jarmon said he’d work with the Healer Cassel to create a census for the camps. My sister knows I have a hand at maths, so I’ve been charged with working out just how many newcomers each village can take. I think Fi’s right. I think if we spread out wide enough, we could find a place for everyone – even if those places are temporary.”

“Do you think they’ll agree to such a scheme? The refugees have few working men amongst them; we’d only be giving the peninsula’s people more mouths to feed,” another woman pointed out.

“But no more than what they can handle,” Alma said.

“We must also remember that these villages will soon lose their men to the call to arms,” Fiona said.

“Only to get women, children, and the elderly in turn?” Lady Agatha asked.

“Any hands are better than no hands at all,” Fiona replied, “though I think the Queen’s endorsement will help win the agreement of those who don’t see things from that perspective.”

“Is she issuing the villages with a mandate?” the cousin asked, one brow arched high.

“Nothing so bold as that, no – but a boon begged by a Queen is a heavy thing, especially in a time when the fealty of those who refuse will be called into question.” Fiona toyed with the handle of her teacup. “She will send liveried messengers with letters written in her own hand. Some may deny her request, but enough will accept.”

“It is a better plan than I’ve heard talk of on all accounts,” the cousin acceded. “My only qualm is this: the process of resettling the refugees could take weeks, if not months. What are we to do with them in the meantime?”

“I’d hope that, with an end to their time here in sight, the Armathian people might exercise some generosity,” Fiona replied. “Lady Agatha, I know you write for my uncle at times. I need you to help me draft a sermon on giving alms. I refuse to believe that Armathians don’t want to give to their fellows, but I can understand why they haven’t as yet; there is no mechanism set up for them to do so with ease.”

Agatha sipped at the teacup which sat cradled between her palms. “I would gladly help you with this task, Lady Fiona – but a sermon would garner support for your cause without setting up a means for delivering such charity.”

Fiona leaned forward in her chair. “That’s where the festivities on Illen’s Day come to mind. Lady Deanna, I know you have a hand in organizing the fete.”

“Mostly the pastry competitions,” she demurred. “Selecting the judges and the prizes and so forth.”

“And you’ve participated yourself, haven’t you? I had heard you were the reigning champion.”

“It’s a small thing only, Lady Fiona. I’m not sure how you’d have me help.”

“Think of all we can use the festival for! Vendors can be given better booths based on the amount of money they’re willing to give from each purchase. Foodstuffs can be donated, as can earnings and leftovers from the competitions you help organize. I’m sure there’s more to be had, but this is your field of expertise, not mine,” Fiona replied.

“There are performers and contests of arms as well,” Deanna said, warming to the topic. “If I could persuade the committee . . .”

“Would a meeting with the Queen do the trick?”

“I don’t doubt it, my Lady. As you said – what loyal Armathian would deny a Queen’s request in peace, let alone wartime?”

Fiona leaned back in her chair, satisfied. “Then it’s settled. Lady Deanna, you and your peers will make charity so simple that none will find an excuse to avoid it. As for the current condition of the camps, however, nothing would be so valuable as a Healer.”

“I assume you are addressing me, Lady Fiona,” the King’s cousin said, hand straying to the talisman hung about her neck.

“I am. Cassel is already overwhelmed, and the living conditions in the camps are bringing him more patients day by day.”

“Is this not the domain of the Master Healer?” she asked.

“He sent what supplies he can spare, but no acolytes have leant their hands to the cause.”

“And this is what you wish for me?”

“There are scores of women within Armathia’s walls who boast modest Healing talents,” Fiona said. “None have visited the camps, and I suppose it’s their husbands and fathers who prohibit it. I’m certain my own father would have forbade me venture past the city walls without an escort, but how many of our noblewomen – even our highest born – can command an escort on a whim?”

“The Queen, Lady Agatha, and you are among their number, I suspect,” she said, a slow smile pulling at her lips as Fiona’s plans became clear. “Would you organize such an escort, then, if I were to reach out to those with similar talents and persuade them to join me?”

“I would. Those of us with useful talents must be encouraged and allowed to give aid.” Fiona looked around the table, meeting the eyes of the women who sat before her. “When the time comes, our husbands and fathers will fight upon the battlefield for our sake – but they are not Armathia’s sole line of defense. We can fight too, in our own way.”

“And our way is just as critical if we wish to emerge victorious,” Agatha said. “If we set the example for charity, others will rise up to meet us.” Her eyes fell upon each of them in turn. “An army of women can win a war.”

As she spoke the cathedral bells tolled out the hour. Fiona’s guests set down their teacups and reverted to pleasantries once more, bidding one another good day as they dispersed to take care of other duties and obligations. Agatha was the last to leave, recounting an anecdote from the night before when Alistair had proved almost impossible to put to bed.

“Precious, he is – but a handful,” she finished, making for the doorway. “You’ll see yourself, someday.”

Fiona cast her eyes down, studying the empty teacups scattered across her table. “Someday,” she echoed.

Sympathy twisted Agatha’s features. “That was insensitive of me, apologies.”

“No need. You’re right, after all – sooner or later I’ll be wed and raising children of my own.”

“True enough, but that’s not the whole of it. I wouldn’t have accepted your uncle’s suit if all he sought was a bearer of heirs.” She leaned against the door jamb. “The women in our circle are all ambassadors, whether or not they and their husbands acknowledge it to be so. We unite the Houses of our fathers with those of our husbands, and whisper counsel into all of their ears.”

“And if they don’t listen to it?”

Agatha let out a huff of amusement. “Believe you me, they listen to far more than they’d ever admit aloud. Power is conferred to more than the man holding the staff.”

“Perhaps I want to be the one holding the staff, regardless,” she said. It was the first time she had admitted it – even to herself – but the words rang no less true for their novelty.

Agatha’s smile turned sad. “Well that’s a different matter entirely, now – isn’t it?”

“Forget I said anything,” Fiona shook her head. “There’s no room for silly fantasies in wartime.”

One of Agatha’s brows rose at Fiona’s quick demurral, but she refrained from comment. “As you like. I’m off to the nursery now – I’ve been away long enough. Think on what we’ve discussed, sister-mine. In the meanwhile, I’ll turn my attention to the men and women camped outside our walls.”

“Thank you, Agatha.”

Fiona slumped back into her chair as Agatha disappeared into the hallway, the pat of slippered feet receding into silence. No sooner had she heaved a sigh of relief over finding herself alone with her thoughts than a figure appeared in the doorway, startling her nearly out of her seat.

“Grandfather,” she said, upsetting the chair as she rushed to greet him.

Miran’s countenance was the sort that wore a severe expression even at rest. Her nerves thrummed beneath his piercing stare, mind racing ahead to work out why he sought her out and what she must have done wrong to earn the visit.

“I see you’ve begun to host gatherings of your own,” he said, eyes taking in the personal effects she had added to her rooms since her arrival. They were drawn to the table in the end, resting upon her bulleted plans and Alma’s careful numbers. “Girl, I hope you know what you’re doing.”

She fought the impulse to wipe her sweaty palms down her skirts. “I’m—” she hesitated. “I’m trying to help. I want to do the right thing, and I think – I hope – that this is the right thing for Anaphe.”

“The right thing,” he echoed, head cocked. “You’ll learn that what’s ‘right’ is often a matter of interpretation.” Miran stepped into her sitting room, pacing a slow circle around its perimeter as he spoke. “I never thought the council hall was the ‘right’ place for a woman. Seats are hard-won, and their occupants are ruthless. You’ve seen what it’s like to have their ire directed your way.”

“I have,” she said, stone-still in the face of her grandfather’s measured pacing.

“When the late King passed and his eldest son fell prey to a vision, I felt the weight of the crown land on my shoulders.” He paused before the window, face turned away from her as he studied the latticework. “That was presumptuous of me. I was the High Steward, yes, but Oceana still had a Queen. Lady Persephone commanded the loyalty of the council and kept our nation whole in a time of need. At the time it mattered little that she was our Queen and not our King.”

“But it matters now?” she asked.

“As soon as there is space to breathe, the council will attempt to reestablish the order of things. I was always among their number. Of late, however, I’ve been given cause to wonder whether or not old orders need always be reestablished. Perhaps in times of crisis, new orders emerge that are better suited to keep Oceana hale and prosperous. If Adrianth’s Queen was so able, who am I to say that Lord Siath’s Queen won’t be?” He turned away from the windows, drilling her with his grey-eyed stare. “Who am I to say that you are not of equal mettle, when you have done more for the twin cities than most of the men who sit in our council chamber?”

She pressed her palms against her knees, willing her voice not to waver. “You’re not angry with me for stepping outside of my place?”

His gaze slipped from hers. “I’ve always been quick to judge on such matters. Decisiveness has made me good at what I do, but it has also cost me much. I’ve brushed off and ridiculed those who operated outside of convention. Now with the wisdom only hindsight can bring I can see that I was the fool – not the other way around.”

She could see Arden in his mind’s eye, fresh-faced as he must have been in youth. If it wasn’t for the hair she didn’t think she’d have recognized him; the meek young man in Miran’s memory was nothing like the uncle she had come to know.

She gave the memory a gentle push, wondering if he’d show her more, but it disappeared just as quickly as it had come; chasing after it felt like grasping at wisps of smoke.

“I know you’ve been selling your talent short to us on purpose, girl, but don’t insult me by acting like I can’t feel you flapping around in my head,” he said.

Fiona recoiled so hard she stumbled back a step. “I—I’m sorry, that wasn’t—”

His eyes narrowed. “I find it hard to believe that you would leave such a strong talent untrained. Your father would have considered it a waste.”

“My father didn’t know,” she replied, hesitating, knowing that her next words would strike once more at the sore spot he held in his heart. “My ability for telepathy developed late, only four months past.”

Sure enough she could see Arden in his mind’s eye once more, regret that wasn’t her own pressing up against her breastbone. “I see,” he said, voice deceptively level. “Take care, then. Men of the inner city don’t take well to having their thoughts fondled.”

“It wasn’t my intention to do so, grandfather.”

“Of course not,” he said, single arched brow conveying what he thought of her poor attempt at dissembling. “You have brass, girl. Brass, intelligence, and talent. I’d be lying if I said you haven’t won my respect – you and the army of women you called to your chambers this morning.”

She didn’t get the impression that he was annoyed with her, but found herself apologizing again anyway. “I’m sorry if you found the term disrespectful. It was too much, to liken what we’ve set out to do with those who risk their lives on the frontlines—”

“When I warned you away from my thoughts, I didn’t think you’d take me so literally as to start stumbling around blind, ignoring your talent and misinterpreting my words.” His eyes flicked downward, drawing her attention to the talisman that hung around his neck. “Many men of our House have Empathetic talents. Some say it’s what makes Stewards what they are, but that’s not all there is to it. Your mind is sharp enough to give the men of our House some competition. Your proposals may prove vital to securing the safety of Anaphe’s refugees – security which will strengthen Armathia’s walls as a result.” His mouth flattened. “I loathe apologies that are given when the speaker knows they’ve done nothing wrong.

“Apolo—” she managed to cut herself off halfway through the word. “Very well, grandfather.”

“Better. Now tell me – are you going to inform the council of all that you’ve set into motion, or are you planning on confining your work to quiet tea-time meetings?”

“I’m to speak on the matter tomorrow.” Her teeth worried at her lower lip. “I’m not sure what their reaction will be. I’ll not quit, though – no matter what they say.”

She could feel the small kernel of pride that lit within him at her words. “If they give you a hard time, you give it right back to them.” His voice dropped, taking on a hard edge she hadn’t heard before, but knew him capable of – it sent chills down her spine. “You are the daughter of a great man, Fiona bar Conrad, and a Steward by blood. Any insult to you is an insult to our House. Don’t you dare stand for it.”

“I won’t,” she promised, hoping she didn’t sound as unsure as she felt. In the distance the cathedral bell chimed once for the half hour.

“I look forward to the morrow’s council,” he said, giving a curt nod. “Good afternoon, granddaughter.”

He was out the door before she could respond, brisk stride carrying him out towards the main foyer. Fiona collapsed back into her chair with relief, fingers pressed to her temple to ward off an oncoming headache.

…

The palace’s blooming courtyard was where Fiona finally found her quarry, walking alone at the fringes of the courtiers who gathered there in the late morning shade.

“Thank you for attending today. I know you might find some trouble with your family as a result.”

Deanna snapped her fan up to her face, obscuring her expression in a move so habitual it bordered on instinctive. “My Lady,” she greeted, beribboned fan giving a few nervous flutters before she lowered it to her side once more. “Attending was no hardship. Whatever my father and the council say in response, I know you’re doing the right thing.”

“It’s easier to do so now that I’m no longer working alone.”

Deanna’s eyes shifted sideways. “You’ve found allies in many influential women. I’m glad to be included among their number.”

Fiona was familiar with the petty social hierarchies created in and around palace courtyards. She was in Anaphe no longer, but some matters were universal. Deanna’s solitary presence was socially significant, and though Fiona hadn’t been in Armathia long enough to be privy to all of the quiet courtly gossip, she had a good idea of the sort of incident that might have relegated Deanna to the group’s fringes.

“You’re Lord Alec’s daughter. You’ll be forgiven your trespasses within the space of a season,” she said. Her words forced a few panicked thoughts to bleed through Deanna’s guard – something about a favored handmaid and a broken engagement – and though confirmation did little to ease Fiona’s worries, she did gain some satisfaction from being proven right.

“I—my Lady, I only—”

Fiona cut off her stammering with a wave of a hand. “This season will yield another scandal and last season’s chatter will be all but forgotten so long as you practice discretion.” She met Deanna’s eyes. “You _have_ learned discretion, have you not?”

Deanna gaped. It was unfair to blindside her thus, but Fiona couldn’t afford to have her proposals championed by a woman intent on remaining a social pariah.

“You didn’t come here to thank me for my attendance, my Lady,” Deanna said, finally finding her voice.

“No,” Fiona agreed.

The fan snapped up once more in a vain attempt to hide the furious blush spreading across Deanna’s cheeks. “I suppose you’ve heard all about it, then, and there’s nothing I can say to salvage your opinion of me.”

Fiona had the vague impression that Deanna suspected Agatha of telling tales following their morning meeting, though she didn’t know whether it came from enchantment or educated guess. “I doubt my opinions are what you expect.” At Deanna’s silence, she continued. “I only hope you don’t give me cause to regret that my projects are linked to you by association.”

“My Lady, if you’re offering me the chance to resurrect my reputation through good work, I swear I won’t disappoint you. I’ll not be the weak link that ruins your people’s march to safety.” Deanna lowered the fan to meet Fiona’s eyes, red-stained cheeks and all.

“I’m glad to hear that.” Deanna’s shoulders had only just begun to drop with relief when Fiona added, “I also hope that you don’t give me cause to regret that my sister is linked to you by association.”

Deanna jerked backward in surprise, eyes wide. “My Lady, I don’t—”

Fiona glanced down at her talisman, drawing Deanna’s attention in a gesture she suspected was similar to her grandfather’s. “Unfettered honesty would serve you better than hedging.”

Deanna gave a shaky nod, fan twitching at her side. “I’ll remove myself from her company, my Lady. If that’s your wish.”

“What I want is for you to take care,” Fiona replied. Deanna’s fan stilled. “I’m—well. I suppose you could say that I’m the marrying kind. You aren’t. Neither is my sister, or so it would seem.”

“My Lady—”

“Let me finish before you offer up another promise you wouldn’t be able to keep,” she admonished. “I’ve stepped well outside of the Anaphean courtyard in the past months – far enough that I’ve come to know others like you, and know them well enough to understand as much as I’m able. I know my sister can’t be anything but what she is. I also know that my grandfather will have her matched as soon as she reaches her majority – if not before then. It’s a matter I have little control over, and though I’ll see to her happiness as best as I’m able, the odds of her achieving happy spinsterhood are low.”

“I know that, my Lady,” Deanna murmured, casting her eyes down. “Perhaps it’s selfish of me, but I’ll take what happiness I can for as long as I can. I think I’d regret doing otherwise.”

Deanna’s words were a painful echo of the ones she had spoken to Malcolm so many months ago. Fiona swallowed hard. Now was not the time for remembrance.

“Then we’re in agreement, and there’s naught else to discuss,” she said, pushing through the hitch in her words.

“You’re not going to tell the High Steward?”

Fiona huffed out a laugh, grief giving way to amusement. “The High Steward is not who you need to be worried about. Alma is my baby sister. If you do _anything_ to harm her or her reputation, I will end you myself. Am I understood?”

“Yes, my Lady. Of course, my Lady,” Deanna hastened to agree.

“Good.” Fiona opened her mouth to bid Deanna have a good evening but paused as something tickled at her thoughts. Glancing around the courtyard, she realized that they were the focus of all the other women present, though those women did their utmost to disguise their interest. Courtiers were hard to read at the best of times, but Fiona could still feel the undercurrent of hungry curiosity. She was glad that none of their conversation had been overheard, yet the thought that her desire to speak with Deanna would breed such interest did naught but irritate her.

Who were they, to consider themselves such righteous judges of character?

Deanna had noticed the source of her distraction. “You’d best go, my Lady, or they’ll be making snide remarks about you in turn.”

Her nostrils flared. “Oh, I’d like to see one of them get up the gumption to say _that_ to a Steward’s daughter’s face.”

“To the viceroy’s face,” Deanna corrected. They shared a smile.

“Let them. I couldn’t care less about what the gossips say before our cause becomes common knowledge. I’m no Seer, but I know I’ve bet on all the right horses.”

“If you say so, my Lady.”

Fiona held her stare. “You are a valuable part of this, both for your skill and because you have made my sister happy in a time when there is little to be happy about. If you stay true to your word, my loyalty to you won’t waver.”

Her words were met by a rush of warm gratitude, strong enough that Fiona suspected no more words were forthcoming. She reached out to press Deanna’s hand before turning and striding back through the courtyard, head held high, Armathia’s courtiers curtseying as she passed.

…

Verne set the carafe of coffee down on the desk with a dull thump, drawing Siath’s eyes up from his notes.

“Perfect, Verne. Thank you,” he said, topping up both of their mugs.

“I hope you know that I had to endure a conversation with your mother while concealing your coffee in a fold of my robe. I thought for certain she’d discover what I was harboring and give me an earful about your health.”

Siath hid his smile behind his mug. “I apologize for asking you to resort to subterfuge.”

“Never did I think the office of High Steward would ask me to lie to the dowager Queen,” Verne continued. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is to evade your mother’s questions?”

“Is that a jest?” The creases at the corners of Siath’s eyes deepened with merriment. “She’s my mother – and a Seer. I never got away with anything as a child.”

Verne harrumphed, pulling up a chair to sit beside his liege. “She would make a formidable adversary, which is, my Lord, the last thing we need right now.”

“There’s contention enough in council,” Siath completed, all trace of mirth falling from his features. “I’m not looking forward to opening the chamber doors to the Anaphean delegation once more. Their representatives are – how did Lord Jarmon put it?”

“I believe his words were ‘spitting mad’, my Lord.”

“From your tone, I gather you have some sympathy for their position.”

“You could have done nothing else, my Lord. We have no way of knowing whether their loyalties truly lie with the crown.”

“Yet that says nothing of sympathy.”

Verne pressed his lips together. “They were barred from two military councils during which allotments and assignments were discussed for Armathia’s defense. If I were in their place, I would be livid. Yet I hope that I would understand that your decision was made out of self-defense: for there must be a mole amongst the Anaphean delegation, and nothing is won by making Dramor privy to our defense strategy.”

“Do you think I made the right decision?”

Verne met his liege’s eyes, and answered without hesitation. “You did.”

Siath dropped his chin into his hands. “Lester’s supporters wouldn’t say so.”

“Lester’s supporters deny the evidence of their own eyes.”

“He’s receiving aid from them.”

“Not all of them,” Verne hedged. “Some are honest men, blinded by their loyalty.”

“Yet I can’t fathom that a man like Lester could endure weeks of interrogation without aid, either from within the city or—”

He didn’t need to finish his thought. Verne knew precisely who his liege feared was aiding Lester from afar, and felt a cold shiver run the length of his spine. “Or he’s protecting someone.”

“The mole. If there is one.”

Verne stared into his cup. “I’d rather that than the alternative.”

They finished their coffee in silence, Verne snapping out of his reverie only as Siath reached across the table to pour them each another cup from the carafe.

“I think they’re placated some that Edmund is back, even if his time in the chamber is limited,” Siath mused. “Perhaps his presence today will help.”

Verne couldn’t help the derisive huff that passed his lips. “Or stoke the flames of their ire. He petitioned to rejoin the council in his former capacity, and we’ve given him no more liberty than his Anaphean subordinates. We’re going to walk into a viper’s nest today.”

“Let them waste the day snapping and jawing, then. It’ll get it out of their systems. Besides,” he said, stirring a sugar cube into his mug, “I’d rather be an unpopular King than a weak-willed one.”

“It could be worse.”

“If I were weak-willed, you mean?”

“No.” Verne stared into his mug as though the brew held the answers he was seeking. “As much as I hate to admit it, your decision to make my niece’s position a permanent one may be the only thing keeping them cooperative. Indeed, it may be the only thing that will keep us going forward. You will have to bar Edmund and the Anaphean delegation from more locked-door meetings in the future.”

Siath groaned. “I know. It’s going to be a nightmare to enforce.” He glanced over at his Steward. “You think Lady Fiona has eased the blow, some?”

“She is as popular with her countrymen as you are unpopular, my Lord.”

“To think – all this time I thought you disapproved of my decision to keep the staff in her hands.”

“You weren’t wrong,” Verne admitted. “At the time I thought you had rewarded her insolence, and that such a reward would set a poor example for the coming council sessions.”

Siath cracked a smile. “To be fair, our councilors have been little _but_ insolent of late.”

“I’m not sure I’d blame my niece’s efforts for their behavior.”

“Surely not.”

“Nor your response, my Lord,” Verne said. “As for my niece – in a council so combative that efficient productivity has become near impossible, my hope is that she will be a unifying force.”

“That wasn’t the impression I gathered from the reaction of some of the other councilors after I bade her keep the staff,” Siath sighed.

“I suspect they will come to see reason soon enough. My niece has the loyalty and respect of Jarmon and his Anaphean delegation. As for men of our city—” Verne measured his tone with care. “She is Conrad’s daughter: a Steward’s daughter.”

“The niece of the High Steward of Armathia,” Siath added.

“The Armathian council would do well to accord her the same respect she is shown by the Anapheans.” He placed his cup down with a clink. “She has plans to speak before council again. She did me the courtesy of informing me first, this time.”

“Regarding the refugees?” At Verne’s nod, he continued, “And her proposals?”

“Valid. Supported by your mother.”

Siath’s rolled his eyes. “Am I always the last to hear about everything?”

“So it would seem, my Lord.”

They shared a smile, Siath’s far more pronounced than Verne’s. As the implications of Verne’s news sank in, however, the smile faded. “The Armathian council may run roughshod over her proposals, no matter how insightful they are.”

Verne shook his head. “Her unique position ought to allow her to overcome such contention. She is Anaphe’s darling, yet she is bound by blood to one of Armathia’s ruling Houses. Both sides have a personal stake in championing her cause.”

“You think so?”

“I have some hope. My father – he is the one who believes she could be the link between the two cities.”

Siath’s brow rose so high it nearly unseated the gold circlet which crowned it. “Miran? Really?”

“Believe me, I share your surprise.”

“Miran, supporting a young, female viceroy. Who would have thought?” Siath mused. “Your father is a hard nut to crack.”

“I’m well aware of that, my Lord.”

The sly smile Siath sent him in return indicated that his liege was making comparisons. “Gods be willing, then, your niece’s appointment will work in our favor. Illen knows little else has gone our way of late.”

Verne hid his grimace behind a long gulp of coffee – for that was an understatement if he’d ever heard one. They had kept Lester imprisoned under hopes that his façade would crack, but he was made of hardier stock than either of them had imagined. Edmund, rife with grief over his daughter’s betrayal and death, had a fire lit under him when he rejoined council; for the first time in Verne’s memory, he had shown passion and conviction regarding the defense of Armathia. He had been both insulted and incensed when he was asked to step away from their last locked-door session. The King was certain the Anaphean delegation had a traitor in their midst, but that was a product of his intuitive enchantment – no more – and was a damn difficult thing to explain to those who lacked such gifts.

“There’s more, my Lord.”

Siath cast him such a look of dismay that Verne regretted choosing that moment to broach the issue. With a heartfelt sigh Siath leaned forward to pour himself another cup of coffee. “I shouldn’t be surprised. Go on.”

“If you’d rather we adjourn—”

Siath waved away his offer. “Now is not the time to shrink from bad news – for we get little else, and then what would I do with myself all day?”

“Very well, my Lord.” Verne dug the dispatch out of the inner pocket of his robes. If he was to deliver more bad news, he would at least make sure he got the details right. “We’ve received a handful of messages from the northern border where the lowland marshes begin. Creatures are preying on livestock there, and according to a recent dispatch, young children are no longer safe. Foul things have been coming in the night, leaving devastation in their wake.”

“Our representatives from those districts will want to discuss this in council today.”

“Indubitably.”

Siath ran a hand through his hair, knocking his circlet further askew. “What do they think it is?”

“The report was devoid of speculation, my Lord.”

“But they described the creatures, surely.”

Verne shifted in his chair. “Those that didn’t die of their wounds – and their wounds were extensive, deep and often fatal – died of a slow sickening. The flesh surrounding the wound would darken, and not even the work of Healers of moderate talent could slow the spread of the poison.”

Beside him, Siath paled. “Tell me of the wounds.”

“Deep, as I said. Often quite clean, made with claws rather than teeth, unless the prey had been consumed after its capture and death.”

“And their faces?”

“Never touched, save by carrion.” Verne set the dispatch down on the desk. “They have written asking for advisement.”

“What do their elders think it is?”

“Their queries were addressed to me, my Lord.” Without realizing he had moved, Verne found himself pressing the still-scarred flesh of his shoulder, a reminder of a wound dealt so many years ago. “For good reason. I couldn’t help but find the description similar to a creature I once met.” His eyes found Siath’s. “To a creature _we_ once met.”

Not that either of them remembered much of that night, Verne least of all, so chaotic it had been once the creature came for them. Thirty years had passed yet it felt longer – a lifetime ago when Siath had only just made the first tentative overtures of friendship but had not yet accepted his pledge of fealty. Sitting beside him now, it was hard to remember a time in which they hadn’t spent near every waking moment together.

Siath’s features had hardened at the mention of the campaign into the swamplands all those years ago, an expression that bore no small resemblance to the Regent’s resting countenance. “I killed that creature. I’m _sure_ of it.”

“The locker holds nothing now. Its doors have been wrenched off their hinges.”

Neither one of them had any more words after that. They sat together until the cathedral bell tolled, each lost in his own memories of the past and fears for the future, finishing their coffee in silence.

…

Council was – well. Council was about what Siath had expected, but that made it no less unpleasant to endure.

“Our nation was founded in the image of Eramen’s greatness! He had the wisdom and foresight to create his council of men from all walks and all regions, so that all of his people would have a voice in this very chamber. What does it say about _you_ , my Lord, that you are so willing to silence some of these voices?” Lord Halin boomed.

“You speak to our King in such a manner?” an Armathian councilor countered.

“I ask Eramen’s heir to accept the consequences of his decisions.”

“This was _Armathian_ business, Halin,” Lord Alec interrupted.

Halin rounded on him. “I didn’t see you barring the Kythrians from council.”

“Kythrian _representatives_ , for Fángon’s sake – not their whole damn court!”

“And what Anaphean representatives were present, my Lords?” Halin snapped. “None: not even our own Duke, who has dedicated his life to service within Armathia’s walls.”

“And what right do you have to demand a voice in a council convened to plan the defense of _Armathia_?”

“Ah, yes, of course – my mistake,” Halin snarled. “The people of Anaphe have no stake in that at all, Lord Alec.”

“The people of—”

“Lord Halin makes a fair point, Lord Alec,” Siath said, speaking up for the first time that morning. Startled, the hall went quiet. “Leave it be.” He took a breath, hoping that this next move was a wise one. To his right, Verne’s steady presence spurred him on. “My decision was not an easy one to make. I have already explained my reasons, and will not do so again – but I will not pretend as though Lord Halin and his fellows have no right to feel as they do.”

“And what will you do about it, my Lord?”

“Peace, Lord Halin. Let me finish.”

Halin bowed his head. “My Lord.”

Siath folded his hands before him, schooling himself to appear collected and at ease. “We will not discuss military allotments today.” He paused until the resulting under-the-breath grumbles had subsided. “No, we will not discuss the specifics of what the council has decided, but as Lord Halin pointed out, that is a difficult thing: for those decisions have no small impact on the safety of the Anaphean people.” Siath let his eyes rove over the Anaphean delegation, settling on Lady Fiona. She met his eyes without hesitation, and he hoped that she would take her cue from his next few words, and not be caught too off guard to perform up to his expectations. “We cannot help them, however, if we don’t find common ground. As such I would like to call Lady Fiona to the floor. She was born within Anaphe’s walls. She was raised on your peninsula, by a man who worked tirelessly for your people. She is now your viceroy, and occupies a place of honor within this council.”

Halin’s nostrils flared. “And if she is so honored, then why was she, too, barred from council these past days?”

“Lady Fiona is the niece of the High Steward of Armathia, and resides within his House,” Siath continued, ignoring Halin’s words. “I hope that, as such, the proposals she brings to us today will be carefully considered by men on both sides of this newfound divide.”

“My Lord?” she asked, straightening in her chair.

“I had heard you were meant to address the council today, Lady Fiona. You do bring us proposals, do you not?”

Fiona visibly gathered herself, surprise over being called out by the King fading as she rose from her seat, staff in hand, to stand before the council. “I do have a few, my Lord, though I hadn’t known you were privy to their nature.” She bowed into a curtsey at the foot of the dais before turning towards the hall. “I’d thought we would spend more time speaking about representation, besides.”

Lord Halin jumped on her statement. “As well we should, my Lady—”

“Believe me Lord Halin, I wasn’t happy with the King’s decision, either,” she said, cutting him off before he started the debate once more. “I have a keen interest in how Armathia’s walls will be defended because I’ve seen the state of our refugee camps with my own eyes. Our people live in squalor on the plain, uprooted and defenseless. When I visited with their elders, I won their ear by swearing to do all that I could to champion their cause. At first I thought the King’s decision had made a liar out of me. How could I champion their cause while barred from the council that would allow me to advocate for their protection? But then, perhaps it doesn’t matter as much as I had thought. We all know that no Armathian force could protect so many refugees from the foul things that come our way.”

“What are you implying, my Lady?”

She pursed her lips. “It’s our right to be concerned about issues of representation, but if our concern stems from the desire to protect our people, we are coming at the problem from the wrong side. Military allotments are inconsequential. Nothing will protect our people save removing them from the plain entirely.”

Several of the councilors scoffed at her words, though Siath noted that no derisive remarks could be heard from the Anaphean delegation.

“That’s no small matter, Lady Fiona,” one of the Armathians said, words patient and slow as though he addressed a small child.

“I’m glad you’re able to see as much, in spite of having never visited the camps yourself,” she said, dealing a subtle barb in turn. “As it is, allow me to report on their state to you.” She repositioned herself as she spoke, finding a place before Miran where she could address both King and council without turning her back to either. “The camps are foul. Refugees are crowded too many to a tent, and, without any way to dispose of refuse, are living in their own filth. Disease runs rampant, and has already overwhelmed the resources of the few Healers they have. My contact, Cassel bar Walter, is among their number.”

Alec spoke up, voice rising with incredulity. “Your contact, my Lady?”

“Yes,” she replied, tone clipped. “Cassel brought me on a tour of the camps, showing me what little fresh food and water they have in their stores – for Armathia has little to spare, and they have no way of obtaining more than what they brought with them. Many go hungry, and they struggle to defend what stores they have as a result.” Her hands tightened into fists at her side. “They struggle to defend themselves in any way, really, for most of their hale and hearty fell with Anaphe, else they’re out seeking work during the daylight hours.”

“Do you suggest we give more, Lady Fiona?” Alec asked. “We have given much already – medicines, supplies, labor—”

“My people appreciate the generosity of those who have given, Lord Alec, but it simply isn’t enough. Potions and pup tents aren’t going to stave off plague and starvation, nor will they protect them when Zathár’s armies come.”

“We must protect our own as well, Lady Fiona. We have no more to give.”

Fiona’s brow drew down. “That, I doubt.”

“Tell us more of this Cassel, my Lady,” Halin spoke up. “From where does he hail?”

 “From Seiba-on-Sh—”

“Hold there, Lady Fiona,” another councilor interrupted. “What are we to take from this – the Lady’s admission that she visited the camps herself? Need we any more support for the King’s decision to bar the Anaphean delegation from our military council when their own viceroy defied him at the first opportunity, going down to the camps when ordered to keep to the inner city?”

Color rose in Fiona’s cheeks. “I was unaware that suggestion was tantamount to mandate here in the North,” she said. “The King questioned the need of visiting the camps. He forbade me nothing.”

“I know your House, Lady Fiona,” Siath confirmed. “I know better than to forbid a Steward from pursuing a matter in which he has voiced such a strong opinion.”

“And I have the utmost admiration and respect for my liege,” she said, bowing her head, “but I believe when we look back at the information I have gathered – and the contacts that I made – it’s clear that the council does, indeed, need to have eyes on the camps. My visits have allowed me to hone a number of proposals for the protection of the Anaphean people, and it is these proposals which I bring before you today.”

“The little chit thinks we’ll jump at her say-so, does she?”

Siath watched Fiona’s head jerk up to find the councilor whose stage-whisper had been calculated to reach her ears. It was one of Alec’s cohort who had spoken, a Midland representative and cousin of Siath’s, several times removed. Siath was surprised to hear such venom come from Lord Pieter; though his relationship with the man had always been distant, he had long thought Pieter to be a more reasonable sort.

Fiona glanced back towards the dais; at first Siath thought she would end the matter by appealing to him, but her eyes skipped over him without pause to meet Miran’s frosty glare. Something must have passed between grandfather and granddaughter in that long moment, for her head snapped back around to where Lord Pieter sat, viceroy’s staff making a sharp crack as it came down to meet the flagstone floor of the hall.

“I am sick and tired of apologizing for having an opinion about the treatment of my own people.” The girlish lilt to her voice was gone, something that was more akin to a snarl taking its place. “What could possess you to speak such words? What could possess _any_ of you to speak as you have: to me, to the King, to one another? For months now – whether here or in Anaphe – we’ve known that the Reckoning is upon us and all you do is run around squabbling like the recipe for staving off end times is acting like a bunch of petty children.” Her lower lip trembled, though not, as far as Siath could see, from any sort of soft feeling. “How can you forget that we are all fighting on the same side, all fighting for Oceana? Our nation is vast and diverse, and we are all of us from very different places, but we are all Oceanic – whether northern or southern or island blood runs in our veins. This is not the time for petty feuds and proud displays. Divided we are weak.”

Halin interjected. “There is nothing petty about arguing for proper representation—”

Fiona turned, staff connecting with the floor once more, a drumbeat to underscore her point. “The King is worried that there is a _spy of the demon_ in our court. I was just as unhappy to be barred from military council as you were, Lord Halin, but if the King remains willing to meet our demands for the protection of our people, debating representation is a waste of the time we could be spending planning their route to safety.”

“Our representative council is the backbone of Eramen’s philosophy of governance—”

“Eramen, Illen bless his name, has been dead for two millennia. Our people still live. I know what I would rather spend the morning speaking about, don’t you?”

Her words caused a ripple of whispers to run through the council, some louder than others – Lord Pieter among them. “A slight upon the First King,” he said to Lord Alec. “Never say the Stewards don’t aim high—”

He was cut off by the crack of the viceroy’s staff connecting with the flagstones once more. “If I dealt a slight to the House of Kings, it was unintended. I doubt you could say the same about the slight you dealt to me, Lord Pieter. This is not the time to sling slurs at one another’s families. While unproductive in peaceful times, Fángon knows it’s a waste of time we do not currently have.”

“Then how would you have us proceed, dear girl?” Pieter asked.

Fiona’s face flushed hot, lip curling as she spat out her next words. “It ought to embarrass you that your best ploy to win the agreement of your peers is to fall to schoolyard insults. As it stands, these insults aren’t leveled at a schoolgirl, but at a daughter of the House of Stewards. You had best remember that any slight to me is a slight upon my House, and one which I will not tolerate. Furthermore, a slight upon me is a slight upon my office, and I swear upon my father’s name that I will _not_ hear you speak thus about the people of Anaphe.”

She took a deep breath, countenance smoothing as she pulled back to address the council as a whole once more. Her next words lacked the venom, but none of the bite, of her initial reaction to Pieter’s remark. “If it’s my ideas you have a quarrel with then speak now – for I am, as so many delight in pointing out, young and untried at governance. It would please me very much to have aid and guidance in this area, and I would be happy to take such guidance from men of honor and standing such as yourselves. If it is not my ideas which spark the quarrel but instead my age, or my skirts, or any other personal slight that crosses your mind – I suggest you make for the courtyards where the ladies of standing would be delighted to share such backhanded gossip with you.”

Siath hadn’t been privy to the council meeting in which his brother took Lord Arden as a Steward, but he imagined it had gone very much like this one – the hall falling silent as the floor was stolen by the tenacity and brilliance of a newcomer. He made a mental note to thank his mother for insisting that he leave the staff in Fiona’s hands: for though he had seen her speak with timidity and deference in the past, it seemed that when she was pushed she had no small amount of Miran in her.

There was fire in this girl. For a moment he saw another place and time superimposed over the council hall – the glint of steel, a flash of all-consuming flame – before the fleeting vision left him.

Lord Pieter stood, executing a smart bow. “Lady Fiona, you must excuse my behavior.” There was no malice in his tone, and when he straightened, Siath could see the open sincerity in his features. “You have made a persuasive point. I overstepped with my remarks. I won’t pretend that I supported your appointment as viceroy, but at this juncture, my opinion on your post is immaterial. I will put it aside for the time being, for the good of Oceana.” He looked around the hall, meeting the eyes of his countrymen. “I urge my fellows to do the same – in all such matters. As the Lady said: divided we are weak.”

“There you have it, gentlemen,” Miran said, speaking for the first time that morning. “Lord Pieter and my granddaughter have both requested that we all stop acting like a bunch of tittering, tongue-wagging girls. Shall we get on with the day’s proceedings?”

Halin offered up a shrug. “I’m willing to let the matter lie for the time being, so long as we agree to take it up again at a more appropriate time. Lord Jarmon?”

“The only question I want answered is this, my Lord – will the Anaphean delegation be permitted to cast votes on proposals regarding the protection of our people, or will we be asked to step outside when the count is made? Jarmon asked.

“Your votes will be counted, Lord Jarmon,” Siath replied, “and I hope you and your councilors see fit to give Lady Fiona the input she will need in order for her proposals to meet with success.”

“That’s a move in the right direction,” Jarmon admitted. “I believe I speak for the rest of the Anaphean council when I say that we can live with this temporary compromise.”

When there was no objection, Siath spoke once more. “Lady Fiona, let’s have the rest of your report. I want to hear more about the relocation project you have in mind.”

.

The hall outside the council chamber had gone quiet some minutes before, a mere handful of representatives hanging back to finish private conversations and arrange for future meetings. Fiona had been busy since the King had dismissed them, flitting from one group to another to ask favors, seek advice, and gauge the depth of support for her proposals amongst the Armathian council.

She had been both surprised and pleased to find herself in a discussion with one of the King’s most senior ministers. She’d have thought that he would consider her below his notice, and was quietly thrilled that he had sought her out.

“All in all I found the presentation fascinating, Lady Fiona,” Lord Randal was saying, “but I’ll maintain that I have the greatest hope for the particular provision we’ve discussed.”

“I’m glad you think it viable, Lord Randal,” Fiona said, lips curving into a slow smile.

“I regret to cut our conversation so short, but I mustn’t be late for my appointment. I look forward to further discussion with you on the matter – tomorrow afternoon, perhaps?”

“I would be happy to host. Three bells?”

“Perfect. I’ll bring the documents and see if my two undersecretaries can’t join us; they’ll know the specifics of the tax code in question better than I. It’ll save us some digging in the Royal Library.”

“Just for that I’ll have our woman put out the butter biscuits,” Fiona said, drawing laughter from the minister in turn.

“May the wind be at yours, Lady Fiona,” he said, extending his arm to clasp.

“And you,” she replied, barely able to get the words out past the giddy glee that rose up in her at the gesture. Here was one of the ministers of the King’s treasury, and he had given her his arm as though they were equals rather than taking her hand—

She contained her excitement until he had rounded the corner. As soon as he was out of sight she gave in, leaping up and punching the air in a celebration of victory. She’d had to fight tooth and nail for every bullet point of her proposal, but in the end – and after a handful of modifications and insightful suggestions – King and council had opted to proceed with her framework and timelines.

“You have every reason to celebrate.”

Fiona whirled around, heat flooding her face as she saw the Queen standing behind her. “My Lady, apologies—”

Persephone huffed out a laugh. “Dear girl, there’s no reason to apologize for finding some happiness in a productive council meeting. Illen knows we haven’t had many of them of late.”

Another smile pulled at her cheeks. “I can scarcely believe it. Thank you for everything – I know not what I’d have done without your help.”

“After this morning’s presentation, I’m starting to wonder whether or not that’s truly the case.”

“My La—”

Persephone waved away her protest. “Hush, now. This is your victory, not mine. I’ll not take any of your credit.” She paused, regarding Fiona for a long moment. When she spoke again her words were quiet, and her gaze had lost some of its sharp focus. “Your father would be very proud of you. I hope you know that.”

Fiona swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat. “Thank you, my Lady.”

Her stare sharpened once more. “I like to think these things show themselves to me for a reason.”

“Oh. I – alright then, my Lady,” she stammered, unsure precisely what the dowager Queen meant.

Persephone made no attempt at elucidation, bidding her a good day instead and disappearing around the corner to leave her alone in the midday quiet. Leaning against the wall, Fiona let the cool stone take some of the heat from her skin. The thrill of victory seemed suddenly subdued, for this was only the first of many long battles they would have to fight.

She shut her eyes, tipping her head backwards. “For you, papa,” she whispered.

She stood there in silence until the bells tolled out the half-hour, sending her hurrying to her next appointment. Lord Conrad had never been late to his engagements, and so neither was she.

She would do him proud, in all respects.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edited as of 12/1/16 -- this chapter is entirely different than it once was. I've added several scenes and changed the way the climax pans out. It will develop over the next few chapters. In content and continuity edits, and thanks to feedback, I had to acknowledge how flat the climax of this book fell and restructured / replotted to try to fix that.

_The Season of Renewal  
Illán the 26; 2422_

Two days out of Halen and _Windjammer_ had drawn close enough to the shoals of Wittenthor that Theo had taken the wheel over from Callum and Arden’s otherwise capable hands. Though Arden knew that Sarian channel pilots used Oreler’s gift to navigate – gifts that weren’t so different from his own in nature – it still amazed him that Theo had any concept of what lay beneath the waves. The water under _Windjammer_ ’s hull had shifted from brilliant blue to a hazy green, obscuring their view of all below them. The only sign that they were approaching shallows came in the foaming white caps that lined the horizon, though Arden couldn’t see the narrow cuts that Theo slipped through no matter how hard he looked.

“You’re wearing my brother’s thousand-mile stare.”

Valory’s under-the-breath rumble startled him from his thoughts. Turning to regard him, Arden didn’t miss the crease that lined his brow. “If only I could see so far – we’d have no need of chart work, then.”

The crease deepened as Valory’s eyes flicked outward to regard the white caps breaking over the oncoming shallows. “You’re not the only one who finds these waters unsettling.”

“Am I that easy to read?”

“A man worried for his ship and his crew gets little sleep.”

Arden couldn’t tell whether there was reproach in Valory’s tone. He had kept his worries close to his chest for fear of laying yet another burden on Valory’s shoulders. He suspected that Valory wouldn’t appreciate such a gesture. “This water conceals dangers.”

“I never did understand why Sarians sang its praises.”

“Their seas leap with fish.”

“And ours don’t?” Valory stepped up to the windward rail to watch _Windjammer_ slice her course through impenetrable green waves.

“Not as they do here. Without the reef our waters would be barren. Here, the water itself contains life. You know that’s why it’s green, don’t you?” Arden asked.

Valory rested his elbows on the cap rail. “More research of yours?” Arden didn’t miss the note of pride that colored his voice.

“Not of mine, no – but I’ve replicated some of the experiments.”

“To verify the results?”

Embarrassment pricked at Arden’s skin. “Would you laugh if I told you it was for fun?”

“Only a little.” Valory reached over to press his hand, taking care that Arden didn’t bristle at his gentle amusement. “Is that what makes Sarian fisheries so impressive?”

“Many think so. More food, more fish.”

“No wonder the fisheries off Devil’s Rock are so contested; it’s Oceana’s one point of access to such waters.” Valory made a face. “I wish I had known that at the time. I suspect I was unsympathetic towards the Ithakans who were so enamored with the area.”

“And they say science and politics are unrelated disciplines,” Arden quipped, drumming his fingers on the rail. “I wonder whether there are any Sarians who have used Oreler’s gift to study such things.” His voice rose with excitement as that idea ran to its logical conclusion. “We exchange such little information with Saria – think of all they may have discovered that yet remains unknown to us! Perhaps Carlin will permit me to spend some time in the royal library in Oldred—” he broke off with a frown. “Not that I’ll have time to devote to such studies, given the reason for our trip to the capital.”

“Time will be tight,” Valory agreed.

“And our mission too important to permit distractions.” He hoped his disappointment didn’t show in his voice.

Valory looked up from _Windjammer_ ’s wake, something soft in his gaze. “Carlin will want to speak with me in private at least once. Perhaps I can secure a pair of hours for you to scrounge around for rare manuscripts.”

A knot of warmth tightened in Arden’s chest. “That’s – thank you. I hope you know it’s not necessary. I wouldn’t want to take away from my assigned duties.”

“Would you rather dawdle in Hammond’s company?”

Arden elbowed him in the ribs, casting a look over his shoulder in reflex. “Come now, he’s not all that bad.”

Valory grunted out an unflattering response; Arden conceded that attempts at such tolerant optimism would fall on deaf ears. He tended to forget that, while Valory was capable of getting on with diplomats and councilors, as a rule he didn’t much like them. Hammond’s intentions may have been in the right place, but he was no exception to the rule.

 _Windjammer_ swayed to starboard as Theo made another minor course correction. From the helm he announced, “The main sheet could go out another foot.” Though it wasn’t an order, the authority that underlay his tone made it clear that he intended his mildly-phrased suggestions to be carried out post haste.

“Do you often get argument when you relieve a captain or coxswain from the helm?” Arden asked, bending to adjust the mainsail as requested.

“Sometimes.” Theo watched the boom move above his head as Arden inched out the sheet. “Hold it there.”

Arden locked off the line. “Even with other Sarians?”

“Just because a man grows up around talent doesn’t mean he understands the way mine presents itself.”

“I see,” Arden said, though he didn’t – not completely. He debated whether or not to ask for further clarification of the nature of Theo’s gift. On one hand he was fascinated by Theo’s ability. On the other, he wasn’t certain whether such inquiries were considered rude by mainlanders.

When he stood, he saw that Theo’s eyes were on him. “Lars tells me you fish with him.”

“I keep him company, more like. The fish avoid me in favor of leaping onto his spear.”

“It’s a similar sort of talent that Lars and I have, though his isn’t strong enough to steer a ship by.”

“Ah.” Arden’s mind spun, trying to come up with an analogy to Oceanic enchantments – perhaps the difference in strength between Valory and Hammond?

“ _Something you wanted, cous_?” Lars’ head popped out of the main companionway. “ _I heard my name_.”

“ _I was comparing our talents. He’s curious_.”

“Eh.” Lars hopped up onto the quarterdeck. “ _Oceanic get all flustered when you ask ‘em about their talents. It’s not polite conversation, or something._ ”

“ _Strange_ ,” Theo remarked.

“I take it you don’t ferry too many Oceanic vessels across the channel,” Valory spoke up from his place at the cap rail.

“ _You know our language_ ,” Theo surmised.

Valory rolled his shoulders. “ _I understand much. I speak little. My tutors told me my pronunciation is ugly_.”

Lars and Theo wore matching grins. “ _They’re not wrong_.” Theo switched back to Oceanic. “Whatever the customs are where you’re from, you should know you can ask what you want outright.”

“Mainlanders don’t consider it rude, then, to inquire after talents?”

“For Sarians it’s a mark of pride. Those who have strong talents are thought to be favored by the Gods. Though I’ll warn you – get a mainlander talking about his talent, and you’ll find it hard to shut him up.”

“You can speak your native tongue around me,” Arden said. “I could use the practice.”

“ _Oh, so now you offer? You’ve never spoken Sarian with me_ ,” Lars accused, making the seamless switch. “ _I found out you knew it from the Regent_.”

“Our commissions never took us to Halen. Besides, I wasn’t about to go flaunting my ability to speak diplomatic languages. My books gave enough away as it was.”

“Yeh, alright _Jack_.” Lars rolled his eyes, but from the curl at the corner of his lips Arden knew he wasn’t offended.

 “Matters of my upbringing and education aside—”

“ _You want to know how I found a cut in the reef that’s not marked on any of your charts_ ,” Theo completed, eyes sweeping over the white-capped shallows that stretched around them for miles.

Arden couldn’t help the prickle of unease he felt at asking after the specifics of a near-stranger’s talent, but took Theo’s word that he wouldn’t be offended and forged ahead anyway. “You said your talent was like Lars’. I know he can anticipate the movements of sea creatures.”

Theo tilted his head, stilling as though he was listening to some far-off sound. He adjusted their course once more, pushing them another degree to starboard. “ _To say I ‘feel’ fish would be an understatement. I commune with them_.”

“You talk to them?”

“ _Not as we talk now, but it’s the best analogy I can offer. I sense where they are beneath our hull, and can follow their paths through and around the shoals_.”

Arden tried to imagine, for a moment, what that must be like – to sense animals in the murky depths beneath them, to be able to feel and follow them around the hazards of Wittenthor. It was beyond his comprehension, just as his ability to light a spark with his mind would be beyond Theo’s. “So you follow fish through the cut?”

“ _More like, I can feel the depth and width of the cut based on the location and movement of all of the creatures below us_ ,” Theo corrected.

“Your talent is strong.”

“ _It is, yes_.”

“Do you—” Arden hesitated, wondering whether his next question was too personal. “Do others know that when they meet you? Can they sense it? I don’t feel your signature.”

Theo let out a quiet chuckle. “ _Our talents are different that way, I think. But I can feel yours_.”

Arden fought the rush of discomfort he felt at having his signature so openly acknowledged. “Ah. Well. I hope it’s not unpleasant.” He grimaced as the words left his mouth.

Theo favored him with a patient smile. “ _Yours feels like pressure against my chest. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s strange. The Regent’s, on the other hand . . ._ ”

“ _Do you hear the buzz, too_?” Lars cut in.

“ _Not quite. More like a low thrum. It’s very annoying_.”

Valory snorted, folding his arms across his chest. “You’ll be glad to hear you’re not the first to say so.”

“ _How do other Oceanic stand it_?” Theo regarded Arden. “ _It must be even worse for those with talents of their own_.”

Lars huffed out a laugh. “ _You’re asking the wrong man – I’ve got it on good authority that he likes it_.”

Arden’s face grew hot. “You say that like it was a conscious choice, or that I’m aberrant for—” he broke off as Lars’ grin broadened, realizing that he was being teased and willing himself not to flush further.

Theo and Lars exchanged an amused glance. “ _Sensitive, aren’t they_?”

“It’s like asking after my choice in undergarments,” Arden muttered, “and then passing judgement upon the answer.”

Theo shrugged. “ _In Saria, such curiosity is considered flattering. Men with powerful talents are happy to speak of Oreler’s fondness for them. If this were a Sarian vessel, and you from Elvford, we’d be comparing our gifts to see who among us is Oreler’s favorite child_.”

“Do you really believe that’s how they’re conferred?”

“ _Don’t you think your strength marks you as one of Illen’s favored_?”

Arden found that thought uncomfortable to hold onto for long. It stroked his pride, perhaps, but it seemed wrong to consider himself a better man than his brothers by such a measure. “It’d be presumptuous of me to think so.”

“ _You Oceanic are so strange_ ,” Theo shook his head. “ _Talent in Saria is a mark of a great destiny. It gives a man the ability to rise above the circumstances of his birth._ ”

“Then what, men without talent are destined for servitude?” Arden challenged.

“ _In the same way a name can damn a man in Oceana_ ,” Theo shrugged. “ _At least talent comes with merit_.”

“So a commoner with talent and means could work his way into the gentry?”

“ _It’s been done – and the other way around, too. Our King would have less difficulty holding onto his throne if he had a high blessing from Oreler_.”

“I see.” Another piece of Carlin’s predicament clicked into place. Arden loved these moments of clarity above all, when a handful of theories came together into a cohesive picture – one he could see laid out before him like a well-annotated chart. Here was the foe they were up against: Carlin’s removal from the landed gentry as the heir to several generations of kingship; his weak talent; his sister’s extreme gift; her inability to rule in Saria due to custom; the propensity – and right – of the nobility to challenge Carlin’s claim based upon their holdings, their superior talents, or both—

“What do you see?” Valory asked.

“A lot more about why Saria crowned a Queen who wasn’t permitted to rule, for one.” Arden tapped his fingers against the binnacle. “I need to have a think about this. May I go through the copies of Carlin’s letters again later? I know they’re hidden amongst your things.”

“You need not ask.”

“ _Did I say something_?” Theo asked, head tilted in quiet inquiry.

“The more we speak, the better prepared I am for court in Oldred, I think,” Arden replied. “I have to organize my thoughts first, but could I pick your mind about this some other time?”

“ _Of course_.” After a pause, Theo switched back to Oceanic. “I won’t mind if you tried to speak my tongue, you know. I’m not the sort to be offended when a man butchers it.”

“Would you rather I did?”

Theo gave an easy shrug. “It doesn’t matter any to me, but you keep talking about preparing for court. I’m sure you know you’ll be speaking Sarian there. Not many speak Oceanic inland of Elvford.”

Arden hesitated. He appreciated Theo’s offer of practice, knowing it for a reflection of the man’s affable nature; his Oceanic was excellent, after all, so he had little need to converse in his mother tongue. Although a part of Arden jumped at the opportunity to practice his long-neglected Sarian, he was worried he would stumble over his words. The thought shouldn’t have flustered him as much as it did – Valory’s pronunciation was rough at best – but Arden hated appearing incompetent, especially in disciplines where he typically excelled.

“I haven’t spoken in a long time,” he cautioned. Theo didn’t dignify his hedging with a response. “Alright, you have a point – _I need the practice_.”

“ _Where did you learn my tongue_?” Theo asked.

“ _I am the son of a family of diplomats. We are taught when we are young_.”

“ _You remember your lessons_.”

“ _I read a lot of Sarian. It helps_.”

He knew that his words were the subject of Theo’s scrutiny and shifted with discomfort. He had chosen simple sentences with easy vowels, but found it difficult to enjoy the practice when he was being so closely regarded.

“ _He sounds Halenic, doesn’t he_?” Theo asked, turning to Lars.

“ _A little off, but I suppose he does_.”

“ _We are taught by islanders_ ,” Arden offered, supposing that it made sense he would have more of Lars’ accent than Theo’s.

“ _And you have a better ear than your Regent_.”

“Unfair, isn’t it?” Valory remained at the cap rail, eyes still resting upon Arden. “He conquers whatever he puts effort into.”

Pride bloomed warm inside of Arden’s chest. “Not _everything_ —”

“Near enough,” Valory snorted.

“There are plenty of—”

“Don’t argue with compliments, Steward-mine.”

Arden’s jaw snapped shut as soon as he realized what he was doing, and he changed tacks. “I suppose it’s fortunate that one of us is suited to the language. Your spoken Dramorian is better than mine; I wouldn’t have guessed your Sarian would be so atrocious.”

“I’ve been living with Imran for more than ten years,” Valory pointed out. “Sarian has never been my strong suit. That I remember my lessons at all is miraculous.”

Up on the foredeck the bell tolled out the hour. “That’s it for us,” Arden said. “ _Do you mind if we continue this next watch_?”

“ _I’m happy to speak with you. It sounds like it will be less of a chore than I would have guessed_.”

Félix appeared on deck then, Ehrin at his heels. Arden turned his attention to briefing them for their upcoming watch, a conversation which took little time or effort considering how uneventful the past three hours had been. As soon as Niko headed up to relieve Jonah on the bow Arden was free to leave the deck. He left Valory topside in a conversation with Theo and Lars and headed below to follow up on his decision to look through Carlin’s letters with a fresh eye.

His path brought him through the salon, vacant for the change of the watch. Something about the room brought him up short. Arden hadn’t gotten much sleep since their passage from Halen began. His dreams were filled with visions of eyes in the dark and wrecks sunk in murky water, unsettling him enough to rob him of rest and cause him no small amount of worry whenever they approached a difficult stretch of shoals.

Of late his dreams always began in the salon with he and Valory stood together, though why they stood there Arden could never remember. _Windjammer_ would give a great lurch then – as though it had been picked up and tossed by something far larger – crashing down onto the crest of a shallow reef and coming to a juddering halt. In his dreams the impact made the hull scream, planks twisting and snapping as the deck splintered all around them. Through all of it Arden somehow remained upright, rooted to where he stood in the center of the wrecked salon. He tried to turn to warn Valory, but couldn’t form the words. Icy dark water rushed in from all sides. It did little more than lap at Arden’s knees yet it had the strength to pull Valory under, dragging him away with a hoarse shout as _Windjammer_ gave her final dying cries. All the while Arden watched in horror, unable to move, unable to reach for Valory’s outstretched arm, unable to do anything to save him.

“Are you alright?”

Arden snapped to, whirling around to see Gabriel standing behind him. For a moment he was convinced that this was some kind of twist in one of his dreams, but as his mind caught up with his racing heart he assured himself that no, this was real. Valory was safe up on deck. He was just on his way to his cabin—

“Arden?” Gabriel’s brows knit together. He reached a hand out to land on Arden’s elbow.

“I’m fine.” Arden’s voice was hoarse.

“Are you?”

Arden recoiled, slamming the door to his surface thoughts shut. Gabriel’s earnest frown indicated that he had already seen more than enough to know that Arden wasn’t, in fact, alright.

“Just a passing memory,” Arden said. “Nightmares tend to stay with me.”

Gabriel studied him for a long moment, and though Arden knew he had his thoughts closely guarded, he couldn’t help but feel that Gabriel could see straight through him. “You haven’t told Valory.” He cocked his head. “You haven’t told anyone – not Callum, not Theo.”

“What’s there to tell? They’re just dreams.”

“We both know there’s more to them than that.”

Arden looked away. “I’ll think about it.”

To Gabriel’s credit, he didn’t seem interested in forcing the issue. With a quiet nod in Arden’s direction he disappeared back out the companionway, leaving Arden alone down below. Arden hastened towards his cabin. He had little desire to remain in the silent salon where every small creak and rattle would have him jumping near out of his skin.

Remembering that his original aim had been to brush up on his Sarian and reread Carlin’s letters, he started to speak aloud as he passed through the salon and into his cabin. If he repeated the words for ‘latch’, ‘door’, and ‘bunk’ several times under his breath mimicking Theo’s mainland accent, well – that was no more than good practice.

Arden forced himself to be calm, to move slowly, to keep his thoughts focused to stop them from sliding inexorably back to his conversation with Gabriel. He knelt beside his bunk, rummaging around on the shelf beneath it until he located Valory’s pack. He paused for a long moment as he fought to recall the translation for ‘buckle’ before proceeding to unbuckle (or ‘unmake the buckle of’) the pack.

Valory kept his things in neat rolls, military habits made still more severe after decades on the road. Arden found the pouch where dispatches were carried without much difficulty, fingers brushing against the soft fur of the cold-weather clothing they had brought with them for the journey northward. He extracted the pouch of letters without disturbing the rest of the pack, leafing through the roll of parchment until he located the pages he was looking for.

Spread out on the ground before him, he threw himself into the task of memorizing them in sequence, reading aloud as he did and stopping at intervals to make further notes in the margins in neat, precise script. Thus occupied he hardly noticed when day turned to evening and the watch changed again. Sometime before nightfall he finally lost the battle with his heavy eyelids, falling asleep curled on the floor of the cabin next to his bunk.

Locker-marked creatures filled his dreams.

…                                                                                                                                                                                                            

Ehrin awoke in the middle of the afternoon, a disquieting dream forcing her from sleep and leaving her unable to find it again once her eyes were open. The fo’c’sle was dark around her, sealed up tight to ward off the spray coming over the bow each time _Windjammer_ ploughed through a white-capped wave. The light that filtered in the lone overhead port light was just enough for her to make out Lars’ sleeping form in the bunk above hers.

Careful not to wake him she slid from her bunk and crept over the object-strewn floor, timing each step with the heaving pitch and roll of the boat. It was a pain to open the watertight hatch from the inside – and she was hit with spray for her efforts as soon as she did – but soon enough she was padding down the windward side of the deck, nodding to Gabe up on bow watch before making her way back to the main companionway.

Since reaching the shoals of the channel both the weather and the seas had grown rougher, beating at _Windjammer_ ’s hull and keeping them all busy whenever they were up on deck. Though Ehrin was no stranger to big seas, it was rare to see them for so many days on end in Oceanic waters. Theo had assured them that this was typical weather for the channel this time of year, but that hadn’t done much for her unease. She suspected that the difficulty of the passage had something to do with her inability to find more than a few hours of rest at a time; sailor’s instincts had the whole crew on guard.

Ehrin lit the stove as soon as she was in the galley, cracking her knuckles and arranging the ingredients she would need for her newest project in the dip of the washbasin to prevent them from sliding all around the countertop. She grabbed a handful of lemons out of the larder, deciding to make one of her favorites; she had always found baking to be soothing, and if she was to get no more sleep before her next watch, at least she could seek the meditative calm the galley gave her.

She had just wedged the bowl for wet ingredients into the corner of a countertop when a knock at the doorframe startled her.

“You can’t just sneak up on me like that—” she broke off mid-sentence when she saw who hovered in the companionway. “Oh, Lord Hammond. Good afternoon, I – sorry, I thought you were one of the lads.”

“I apologize for startling you, Miss Ehrin,” he said. “I was in the salon trying to get some things done, but I find it difficult to concentrate in this weather.”

“Are you ill?” she asked.

“I’m in better form than the Lieutenant, but I would appreciate some of your ginger tea if you could spare a moment.”

“Coming right up, my Lord,” she said, dropping the kettle onto the stovetop. “I just lit it, so it might take a little while to boil. You’re welcome to wait here, if you like.”

“Thank you.” He glanced back towards the salon. “This isn’t my first passage, but I must confess, the Regent and his Steward put me to shame. Lord Arden is studying maps of the frozen lands at the moment; how he does so without feeling queasy beggars the mind.”

“He’s a mast-monkey, my Lord. I’ve never seen him boot,” she admitted. “Well, not because of rough weather, at any rate.” She turned her attention back to her batter, cracking an egg one-handed.

“Do you see much weather like this?”

“Not outside of the Season of Storms, no. We’ve sailed through hurricanes before, but my Da always sees to it that we’re never caught by the wrong half.”

“He’s a fine captain, your father. It must be a great comfort to him to have you aboard.”

She uncorked a jug of milk, giving it a liberal pour before slipping it back into its place in the larder. “We’re all the family we’ve got left. What about you, my Lord? Did you leave family behind on Halen?”

His nose wrinkled. “On Halen? Goodness, no. My wife is Armathian, and she remains within its walls when I am out on assignment.”

“She doesn’t come with you, my Lord?”

Hammond’s expression made it clear that he found the suggestion absurd. “The passage to and from Saria is not for a woman of delicate sensibilities.”

Ehrin struggled to mask her annoyance. Spending so much time around a man like the Regent had spoiled her; he was a soldier, after all, and had never looked down his nose at her because of her station. It seemed that Hammond, as kindly as he was, proved the rule rather than the exception. “Shipboard life can be difficult,” she said, keeping her eyes on her hands as she measured out the flour and sugar.

“To be sure,” he agreed. “I look forward to retiring from service soon, that I might not have to make the crossing myself anymore.”

“Is this your last mission?” Out of the corner of an eye she saw his face transform with a satisfied smile.

“It is, and it’s one that will be remembered for ages, so it’s unbecoming of me to complain, but I do long to return home.”

“To your family,” Ehrin prompted.

“It’s only my wife, now. We had two daughters, both of whom have long since married and moved away to live in their husbands’ Houses. We matched them well, and they have been glad for it, but the coastal Midlands seem so far away at times.”

Ehrin began mixing her dry ingredients in with the wet, folding them into a batter. “It’s a bit funny to hear you say so, I s’pose, because for me the trip between Armathia and the Gulf coast is one of the easiest passages we make.” She reached for the grated lemon rind, adding it to the batter. “It shouldn’t be too hard for you to visit with your daughters once we see peace in our waters,” she added, hoping her contrary words didn’t cause any offense.

“That is a fine thought, Miss Ehrin. I am proud to have worked in service of the Oceanic crown, but Saria and its ridiculous politics has kept me from my home and family for far too long.”

Ehrin had no idea how to respond to that and stayed silent, offering up a mild smile as she beat the lumps from her batter. She was spared the need to navigate Armathian politics by the appearance of Félix at Lord Hammond’s shoulder, his silent arrival sending Hammond springing back a step.

“You lads are all the same,” she groused, favoring him with a smile, “nosing around the galley as soon as I’m about to put something in the oven.”

“Lemon cakes?”

“They’ll be warm for our watch. What are you doing up?”

“I should ask you the same,” he said, reaching past her to snag a roll from the net where they hung overhead.

“I can’t sleep in this,” she admitted. “Fo’c’sle is heaving like it’s the end of the world. I have to keep an arm around my mattress pad just to keep from rolling out of my bunk on this tack. D’you want some coffee?”

He flashed his teeth at her. “ _You know me well, my little warrior_.”

“You’re that Western sailor Lord Arden spoke of,” Hammond observed from his place in the companionway. “What was that, the Belen dialect?”

“My tongue, yes,” Félix replied.

“You move freely about the vessel.”

Félix paused with the roll halfway to his mouth. His eyes swept over Hammond’s face, assessing. “Does this upset you?” He cocked his hip outward, drawing Hammond’s attention to the gilt pommel of his sword. His thumb looped into his belt just beside the filigree buckle displaying his family’s crest: a clear indication that he was a man of no mean rank.

“I hadn’t known the Regent kept a man of the colonies amongst his cohort.”

Ehrin knew enough about politics to hear the veiled insult. Even if she hadn’t, the curl of Félix’s lip told her all she needed to know about the intention behind Hammond’s words.

“His brother signed my pardon. The Regent considered it an adequate recommendation,” Félix replied.

“Young kings are oft lenient. They offer our neighbors the hand before the sword, but I fear it always comes down to the sword in the end.”

Félix bared his teeth in a knife-sharp smile. “You should discuss your opinions of the King’s judgment with his brother. I am sure it would interest the Regent to hear such words from your mouth.”

“I should think the Regent has seen enough of the Eastern World to know the perils of trusting a foreigner,” Hammond replied, face an impassive diplomat’s mask.

“Hm. You will have much time to discuss these ideas with him when he rides with you to Oldred to aid you with your assignment.”

Ehrin hid her laugh with an affected cough as she poured the last of the batter into a baking pan. Félix was so often unapologetically blunt that she forgot he was no stranger to the political sphere. His command of Oceanic had improved enough, it seemed, to deal careful insults as well as he delivered bold ones.

“Are all Western sailors so insolent?” Hammond volleyed.

“No. But Western princes are a different matter.” Hammond winced – Ehrin supposed he hadn’t recognized Félix’s crest upon sight, and figured that Arden had told him they had a navy man aboard rather than the brother of the Lord of Belen. As she slid the pan into the oven, he switched back to Belenese. “ _I’ll return for the coffee once this nationalist shit is out of your galley_.”

“No worries,” she said, stifling another laugh as he disappeared back onto deck.

“My apologies, Miss Ehrin,” Hammond said as soon as the companionway doors shut. “You should not be subjected to such talk.”

“I don’t mind,” she shrugged. At the kettle’s first breathy whistle she snagged a mug from the rack overhead, pouring out water for Hammond’s tea before grabbing for one of the socks of coffee grounds she kept sitting in the cabinets.

“That is gracious of you to say, yet it pains me that you must cater to the fancies of a man such as that.”

Ehrin was glad that her back was to Hammond when he spoke; she made a face into the larder as she prepared his tea. “Don’t worry on my account, my Lord. Félix has been on board with us for nigh on eight months. He’s a good sort.”

Hammond took the offered mug, breathing in the scent of steeping ginger with a contented sigh. “Men of the West are a dangerous lot,” he said, words slow as though he was lecturing to a schoolgirl. “It wouldn’t do to extend your trust to him.”

“It’s kind of you to give me your counsel, my Lord,” she said past gritted teeth, smiling through the temptation to introduce her fist to his face. _Don’t overact out of pride_ , she coached herself. _He means no insult_.

“It’s the least I could do. Thank you very much for the tea, my dear; I’m feeling better already.”

“You let me know if you want another brew,” she replied, wishing that he would be a little less gracious so she could summon the will to properly dislike him.

As he disappeared back into the salon, the hatch over her head creaked open, revealing Félix’s scowling countenance. “He is gone?”

“Yeh. You still want that coffee?”

“ _Did he say anything to you? Any insult_?”

Ehrin shook her head, pouring the hot water through the coffee grounds and into a pot. “Don’t get yer trousers in a twist, Félix – he’s just a silly old man with silly old ideas.”

“ _If he is any indication, Oceanic politics must be impossible to navigate – councils full of decrepit reactionaries who take twice as long to grow old and die as they should_.”

The laughter startled both of them; Ehrin whirled around to see Valory leaning in the doorway of the galley, empty mug in hand. “For a man who has never sat in the Armathian council, your assessment is remarkably accurate,” he said, accepting Ehrin’s pour with a grateful tilt of his head.

“How do you stand such nonsense?” Félix asked.

“Because I don’t have to live it more than a handful of times a year. I’m the Regent: I’ll travel Oceana’s farthest reaches until Illen takes me East – and thank the Gods for that.”

Ehrin knew that Félix had often questioned Valory’s willingness to step aside and follow his brother’s rule without challenge, and wondered whether these words were the ones that would finally make him see. Valory wasn’t a sailor like they were, but he was a traveler – a man who, like the rest of them, had never desired the calm security of a landed life.

“Hm.” Félix reached down to accept his own coffee. “Your position has some appeal.”

Valory took a long draught from his mug. “My position also dictates that I keep Hammond happy – at least until we have what we want from the Sarian nobility.”

“I will stay away from him as I have done. These words with him were not my intention.”

“Good.” Valory squinted up at the hatch. “All’s well on deck?”

“All is well.”

“Then I’ll see you in two turns of the watch.”

…

Ehrin would later say that, when the bell started ringing, all of the lads in the salon jumped up and into action as though they’d been waiting for it – and if you asked her, they all had been. They had seen little action since leaving Halen, and _Windjammer_ ’s crew had passed each watch waiting with baited breath for the trouble to come.

Gabriel had stood firs, in the quiet before Theo’s shouts and the urgent clanging of _Windjammer_ ’s bell, sensing the alarm a fraction of a second before it came. He was halfway up the companionway by the time Ehrin and the others reacted, throwing down their hands of cards and charging out onto the deck.

“Get to your stations, lads, we’re going to have to tack!”

This was Callum’s order, shouted from the helm where he, Theo, and Arden stood together. Ehrin whipped around, looking for the source of the threat only to catch sight of Imran, standing midships with his long fingers wrapped tight around the cap rail, staring off to starboard. Some hundred feet away a dark shape hovered just beneath the waves, nearly _Windjammer_ ’s equal in length. The crest of each wave covered it completely, but when the trough came Ehrin could see its eyes, empty craters carved into the top of its slick black body, tracking them as they sliced through the water.

“What in Fángon’s name is _that_?” Niko swore.

Arden ignored Niko’s question. “To your positions. Félix, I want you on the bow.” He moved to the quarterdeck steps, tight-lipped, eyes trained on the creature.

“It’s starting to move – let’s hustle,” Theo urged, eyes half-lidded and head tipped back towards the sky.

Ehrin stumbled towards the foresail sheet, unable to take her eyes off the creature. Her station was just next to where Imran stood, and as she readied for their next maneuver, he turned to her.

“They said it was witches, but this is what I saw,” he said.

“That thing?” The tremor in her voice was obvious, and she made no attempt at hiding it.

“Yes. It has been following us since then.”

“What is it?”

Imran had no words for that, turning back to the cap rail instead.

“Félix, are you ready on the foredeck?” Arden’s voice drew her focus away from the menacing slick of the creature’s skin as it drew above the waterline. _Windjammer_ rarely did things by the book, but when it came to it she knew they could rely on their first mate to run the deck.

Félix began a series of call-and-response questions, their familiarity bringing some sort of order to Ehrin’s spiraling thoughts and calming the pounding of her heart.

“Ready on the flying jib?”

“Aye!”

“Ready on the jib?”

“Ready!”

“Ready on the staysail?”

“Let’s bring her ‘round already, for Fángon’s sake, that thing gives me the shivers—”

Niko’s words were cut off by _Windjammer’s_ sway as Callum spun the helm to windward. The bow picked up speed as it swung, sails slapping thunderclap-loud as they crossed to the other side of the boat. _Windjammer_ righted herself before tilting again, this time to the other side. Her sails filled and she began picking up speed on this new tack, heading directly for a line of white-capped water that marked the start of the shoals.

“Well done. Smooth.”

This was Arden’s voice, and she jumped as the words came from just behind her ear. Dropping her coil on the midships housetop, she turned to see that Arden wasn’t watching their alarming progress towards the shoals that could crack their hull in two, but instead had his eyes were trained on the dark stain that followed just behind them, pacing them as they sliced through the water.

“What do you think?”

His words were directed at Imran this time, who turned away from the rail with upper lip curled. “I told them that I saw this, and they told me it was witches.”

“You think the thing’s been following us all along, then?”

Ehrin swallowed hard at the waver in Arden’s voice, at the teeth that dug into his lower lip, at his ashen complexion.

“Yes.” One of Imran’s hands left the cap rail to press against the wooden idol of Arrar that hung over his breastbone.

“I’ve never before seen its likeness.”

Ehrin quietly agreed with that statement. It bore a passing resemblance to a squid or octopus of the giant-type, but that was where any ability for her to understand what she saw ended. The body was sinewy, yes, and it had many limbs the way a typical creature of the sea might, but all else was different in a way she found difficult to quantify. As she stared at the dark swath of water that dogged their heels, though, she allowed that creatures of the deep – though they were loathsome – were still no more than beasts. This creature, though, was no typical animal. It was something else, something other. Its very appearance filled her with dread. This was no opportunistic creature, no hunting witch. In character and quality this was something more. Something malevolent.

“I have.”

Arden’s focus sharpened, eyes snapping from the water to Imran’s face. “In Anaphe.”

“This was what foundered the _Desert Wind_ , yes. Perhaps not this one, but a creature like this.”

Arden turned before Imran finished speaking, spinning on a heel and making straight back for the quarterdeck. Glancing back into the sun, Ehrin could see Valory’s form silhouetted next to the main sheet. Arden reached him in a few long strides, hand coming up to rest over the arm that Valory had only recently regained full use of. Their heads bent low in quiet conference and Ehrin looked away, feeling as though she was observing a private moment. Her eyes skittered sideways towards the helm where Theo and her father stood.

“Course, Theo – let’s have us a course already,” Callum ground out.

Theo had his fingers up at his temples, pressing tight with eyes screwed shut. “Badgering me won’t help your cause.”

“You’ve been all snap judgements with that talent of yours – how’s this any different?”

“That _thing_ distracts me with its presence.”

Ehrin spared another glance at the creature. It gained on them, rippling beneath the waves, an inky dark absence of light that dogged their wake.

“That _thing_ is going to do more than distract you in a few minutes’ time,” Callum said through gritted teeth.

“Its presence is large, Captain. I must concentrate.”

“Yeh, well concentrate harder, would you? I’m steering my girl right at a reef—”

Theo’s eyes snapped open, trained straight over the bow. “Two fifty-five, right there. Do you see it?”

Callum snorted. “No. But I trust you know what you’re on about, man of Oreler.”

Ehrin squinted, turning until she faced the same way as Theo. There was nothing for it – all she saw was a line of white caps, not a cut in sight.

“Fall off,” Theo said. “A little more – yes, hold it there.” His eyes were shut once more. “We’ll make it through. The creature can’t follow where we’re going to go.”

Arden moved back to the helm, Valory at his side. “It still paces us,” he said. His thumb and forefinger remained circled around Valory’s vambrace-clad forearm.

“We’re at two fifty-eight,” Callum said.

“This is better,” Theo replied.

Perspiration beaded on Callum’s forehead as he fought to hold this new course. “I still don’t have eyes on this cut you’re talking about.” His throat bobbed with a hard swallow, hands gripping tight around the spokes of the helm. “May Ranael smile upon us,” he muttered.

Theo didn’t respond. Head tipped back towards the sky, he whispered a snatch of a Sarian phrase under his breath – a prayer if Ehrin had ever seen one. The quarterdeck fell quiet. With no chatter to buoy them, the rush of the wind and the creak of the rigging seemed all the louder. Félix’s muted commands drifted aft on the breeze as the lads on the bow worked in tandem to trim the headsails for speed. All the while behind them, the creature shifted and darted below the surface.

“It knows we’re making a run for safe water. Why doesn’t it strike?” Arden asked, breaking the silence after some long minutes. He received no response, but Ehrin didn’t miss the crease in Valory’s brow as he watched him.

“You can bet I don’t want to find out the answer,” Callum muttered. “C’mon lads, at the ready for a course change. Theo?”

Theo remained unmoving, voice slow and steady. “We’ll be falling off due west again once we pass through the cut.”

Ehrin gripped her line tight enough that the hemp bit into her palms, mouth dry and heart hammering in her chest. She, like her father, couldn’t bear to look at the white line of reef awash before them. She, too, trusted in Theo – but it was so hard for her, she who had never felt what an enchantment was like, to trust that which couldn’t be seen with her own two eyes.

Her father’s hand at the helm was expert. Following Theo’s quiet directions, they barreled towards the reef. White-capped water slapped against their hull on all sides and Ehrin found herself wincing, bracing for an impact that never came. They slipped through a cut in the reef known only to Theo and the fish whose darting turns he followed.

The moment stretched in time as all of _Windjammer_ ’s crew held their collective breath. Her bowsprit ploughed through one, then two white-capped waves, spray soaking Félix and the lads at the bow and blowing back as far as the quarterdeck to dust Ehrin in a fine mist. _Windjammer_ leveled then, picking up speed as they passed the crest of the reef and into the shallow water on the other side.

“Due west,” Theo murmured.

Callum gave a nod, jaw clenched tight, and spun the helm to starboard.

“Trim for beam reach,” Arden called, giving the order from the quarterdeck steps. With trembling hands Ehrin let her line run until the sail was halfway out, filled with wind and helping them make good time on their course. “That’s well, Ehrin.”

She locked off her line at Arden’s voiced approval, turning to stand at the rail from which Imran hadn’t moved all the while.

“Does it follow us still?” she asked.

Imran shook his head. “The Sarian was right. It could not make it through the cut.”

“ _We_ almost didn’t make it through the cut.” She pressed her palms against the worn teak of the cap rail. “It’s still out there, though, isn’t it?”

“It watches us from the deep side of the reef.”

Imran was right. The locker-marked creature may not have been able to squeeze through the cut that _Windjammer_ had traversed, but that didn’t deter it from dogging their course, matching their progress from just opposite the reef crest.

“We can’t stay in the shallows forever.” A chill ran down her spine as she realized that, soon enough, they would be sharing water with that creature once again. “You said you’ve seen something like this before,” she said, hoping he might have some solution, some words of encouragement.

“I know little of the creatures of the deep, Miss Ehrin. I only know that I have seen this type before. I had hoped never to see it again.”

Ehrin turned back to the quarterdeck where Valory had come to stand at Arden’s side, features carved into dreadful severity. It wasn’t Valory’s grim expression that gave her pause, however, but Arden’s pallor. She had never before seen him look so troubled, eyes fixed on the shadow just beyond the reef crest, face white as a sheet.

She had faced down foreign armies, vicious squalls, and sea creatures of all kinds. Ehrin knew fear. But seeing that look on Arden’s face –

She had never before felt fear like this.

…

Arden woke with a start, shivering with cold. He thought he had heard his name spoken, but when he opened his eyes it was dark and the cabin was empty. He knew there was something he was supposed to say or do but the words stopped stubbornly on the tip of his tongue. His dreams slipped through his grasp like so many grains of fine sand, leaving cold in their wake.

A soft snore drew Arden’s attention to Valory’s sleeping form. Valory had rolled in his sleep, stealing the blankets and cocooning them tight around his body. His Midlander blood couldn’t abide the nightly chill in Sarian waters. Though that chill did indeed hang in the air, Arden couldn’t help but think that something else altogether was responsible for the cold that seeped into his bones. It was a thought he chose not to pick at, busying himself instead with the task of removing one of the blankets from Valory’s shoulders.

Valory let out a muzzy little grunt, eyes slitting open for a brief moment that Arden suspected he wouldn’t remember in the morning. He acquiesced to Arden’s silent demand, lifting a shoulder to give up the blanket upon which Arden was tugging. With a huffed string of nonsense he rolled over, tucking into Arden’s shoulder, pressing blissful warmth all along Arden’s side. Arden lipped a kiss to his hairline, tucking the liberated blanket tight around them both.

Valory fell asleep straight away – though Arden supposed he hadn’t quite woken up to begin with. Soon the creaks and groans of _Windjammer_ ’s hull were accompanied by Valory’s snores once more. Arden shut his eyes. He didn’t look forward to the dreams that would come, but night after night of poor rest left him too tired to fight his nightmares by trying to stay awake and work. Instead he let himself succumb, dropping off into a fitful sleep.

He dreamt of the cold.

…

“What are you doing up at this hour?” Jonah asked, peering at Arden through the misting rain.

“Can’t sleep,” Arden replied, hoping his tone wouldn’t invite further questions.

It didn’t. Jonah gave a shrug. “If it’s all the same to you, then, I’ll join Lars up at the bow. Man’s been chattier than a fishwife now that we’re back in his home country.”

“By all means.” Arden stepped up to take the helm. “Same course?”

“No change. He’s been dozing, so.” Jonah nodded at Theo, whose head was tipped back against the gallows, eyes shut and hat pulled low around his ears.

“You’re relieved.”

“Cheers, mate,” Jonah said, disappearing down the quarterdeck steps towards the capstan.

Arden gave a look around, getting a feel for the helm and their surroundings. It was pitch dark around them, and but for the froth on the crests of the waves just to windward of _Windjammer_ ’s beam, he couldn’t see a damn thing. He thought wistfully upon the warm nights and clear skies of the waters off Oceana’s isles before banishing the fantasy from his mind. It wouldn’t do to make comparisons.

The minutes ticked by until Arden estimated he had done about a half of an hour on the helm. Lars checked on him then, ostensibly to see whether he wanted to get back to bed, but Arden suspected that Lars was hoping Theo would be up and looking to chat more Sarian with him. He returned to the bow in short order, and Arden was left with his thoughts once more.

It was only when the moon crossed past _Windjammer_ ’s starboard spreaders – three bells, Arden figured – that Theo roused himself. He stretched, cracking his back, before sliding off the deck box to his feet. He swayed with _Windjammer_ ’s rolls as he came to stand at Arden’s side, squinting at the compass.

“ _I felt the shift from the fish_. _Come another two degrees to port_.” He flicked up the brim of his hat, nose wrinkling against the misting drizzle.

“ _Rain let up_.”

“ _I see that. We’ll have more of it before we reach Elvford. Our growing season is always wet_.”

Theo rested an elbow upon the binnacle, using it to steady himself against _Windjammer_ ’s tossing. He didn’t say anything about Arden’s unexpected presence on deck; this wasn’t the first time Arden had appeared on deck in the middle of the night when he wasn’t due on watch.

Off to port a flash captured their attention – lightning.

“We’ve been getting that on and off all night,” Theo said, brow furrowed in a way that gave Arden pause.

“Are you expecting bad weather? The cold would have me anticipating a storm were we further south.”

“Not in the way you mean, no. The lightning gives me pause. We only get the kind that stays up in the clouds during warm spells. When warm and cold meet like this, bad things brew.” He looked back out to where the lightning had illuminated the water, now dark again.

“Downdrafts,” Arden supplied. He had read about them at length before leaving Armathia.

Theo’s lips pulled flat in grim confirmation. “I’ve seen waterspouts aplenty in the area, but it’s the white squall that has me worried. The conditions are ripe for it.”

Arden tipped his head back, a defeated sigh escaping from his chest. “Of course.” He turned to regard Theo out of the corner of an eye. “You think we’ll see one?”

“By the Gods I hope not.” Theo folded his arms tight across his chest. “It’s bad enough when it touches down on the horizon – all you can do is turn and run with it and pray your Captain has already dropped most of your sails.”

“And if one hits you dead on?”

“It’s as bad as being struck by a hammer of the Gods. You’d best hope you have someone on your main sheet to let your sail out or it’ll knock you down, put your rig in the water, and that’s the end of it.”

Arden blew out a breath. “Have you ever seen one doing this passage?”

“Once, when I was a young man.” Theo’s voice went quiet. “Saw it take a ship right under. We were luckier, aboard my vessel. We were a league or so downwind, and we worked under a fine Captain who knew the shift in the weather and had struck all but our storm sails a few hours earlier.”

Arden stared out into the darkness, teeth worrying at his lower lip. “What was it like?”

“All white clouds above us, coming down from the sky like a waterspout made of nothing but wind. Touched down on that vessel with wind that blew like a gale, only it came straight down from the sky. The ship tipped over, rig in the water, gave a heave and sank like that – took no more than a few minutes before she was fully under. We ran away from them while the squall blew through. It was rough as anything I’ve ever seen. It passed in minutes. Some of the younger lads wanted us to turn around and look for survivors, but the Captain knew better. No man could survive that.”

Arden shifted, pulling his coat tight around his shoulders. “Unnatural, that kind of wind.”

“As I said.”

They sat in silence for some time after that, each lost in his own thoughts. Jonah made another lap of the deck when the hour came and went, taking down their speed and heading below to mark their course on Callum’s charts. By the time he had rejoined Lars on the bow, Arden began to feel the chill of night watch seeping through his oilskins. He suffered through it for another few minutes before giving in.

“Can you take the helm?” he asked. “I need a mug of something warm from the galley.”

Theo reached out, grasping the spokes. “ _Only if you make a cup for me, as well._ ”

“Feeling the chill?”

Theo favored him with a grim smile. “You could say that.”

In the distance, lighting flashed again. Arden turned towards the companionway, hands deep in his pockets. Yet even when he escaped to the warmth of the galley the chill of the night followed him, Theo’s words looping through his mind as he lit the stove and set the kettle to boil.

The sense of foreboding that had dogged him since they left Armathia – the impenetrable surety of misfortune to come – grew with each mile of water they put beneath _Windjammer_ ’s keel. Speaking with Theo about the infamous storms of the Sarian Sea had done nothing to ease his mind.

Arden hunched over the stove, but not even the open flame before him could chase away the cold.

…

“Your Lieutenant said he has seen such a creature before, did he not?” Hammond asked, fingertips worrying at a dent in the side of his long-drained mug of tea.

“As have I, yes,” Valory replied.

“The Lieutenant told me in that brisk way of his about the siege on Anaphe and the creature that foundered the _Desert Wind_. If it could founder the flagship of the Anaphean fleet, a vessel armed to the teeth with navymen, one nearly twice _Windjammer’_ s length at the waterline—”

“It was a fearsome beast,” Valory said, jaw tight. “It is still, as I have said, only a beast.”

Hammond dug his thumb into the dent, watching as the nail bed turned white under the pressure. “My Lord, please spare me no truth. I have made the passage to and from the mainland many a time, and have had cause to think that I would be shipwrecked more than once.” He looked up to meet Valory’s eyes. “The ocean has no love for man. Ranael’s realm is far beyond man’s ability to grasp, let alone tame. I have been at its mercy, and it is a humbling thing. This is not the same.”

Valory’s cast his eyes sideways to where Arden sat, studying the grain of the table with avidity. His quiet appeal garnered no response. “I hear your concerns, Lord Hammond, but we cannot – and will not – turn back. Whether it’s the Sarian Sea’s downdrafts, or—”

“My Lord, please.” It was so unlike Hammond to interrupt a superior that Valory broke off mid-sentence, startled. “Forgive me, but platitudes do not ease my mind any,” Hammond continued. “We aren’t speaking of the wind systems that founder vessels. We are speaking of a living thing, one which has been following us with intent – _stalking_ us, even. It is a predator, my Lord, and we are its prey.”

“What would you have me say, then, if you think my words mere platitudes?”

Hammond pushed his mug back towards the center of the table. “Are we prepared to face it?”

“Yes.” The word fell from his lips without hesitation. He fought the temptation to look over at his Steward for assistance; Arden’s mind was leagues away yet again, and Valory knew he’d be little help. “We’re as prepared as any vessel can be. You haven’t had the privilege to fight with _Windjammer_ and her crew, Lord Hammond, but I chose this vessel for a reason. Armathia boasts no better fighting men than those we have aboard, and Oceana would be hard pressed to put together a better crew.”

“And if it’s not enough?” Hammond challenged.

“Then we founder, and that’s the end of it.”

Hammond drew backwards in his chair. “My Lord—”

“Is that what you wanted to hear?” Valory snapped. “It’s the only answer I have left. I won’t accept defeat easily, but in Ranael’s domain with a creature of Zathár on our heels I have no certainties to offer you.”

“Very well, my Lord.” Hammond’s words were quiet, his eyes on his hands once more. “You are right: there is nothing more to be done or said, and my desire to push for assurances won’t help our cause any.”

Valory let out a long sigh. “For what it’s worth, Lord Hammond, I trust _Windjammer_ and her crew with my life. They’ve done right by me in times just as grim.”

“If they have earned your faith, then I suppose it would be uncharitable to withhold mine,” he agreed, making a valiant attempt at schooling his features to neutrality. “Thank you for your time, my Lords.”

Valory stood when Hammond did, extending his arm to clasp. “I’ll show you back to your cabin.”

When Valory returned from the silent – and tense – walk to the midships companionway, he found that Arden hadn’t moved from his spot at the salon table. Valory stopped just inside the doorway, wrestling with the worry that gripped him at the sight of Arden’s vacant expression. If Arden knew that he had reentered the room, it didn’t show.

Valory crossed the salon in three long strides, hands coming to rest on Arden’s shoulders. Arden’s temples throbbed, his back ached from trimming sail, his knee was bruised from banging it on the capstan earlier that day—

“Don’t sacrifice yourself on account of such minor hurts,” Arden murmured, the first words he had spoken in some time.

Valory hadn’t even realized that he had begun reaching out with his enchantment, smoothing through the tangles of the incipient headache pressing at Arden’s temples and gentling the knotted tension in Arden’s back out of habit. “I would see you eased, some.”

“Not at your expense.”

“It’s the only way I know how, if you won’t tell me what truly troubles you.”

Arden turned to regard him, lips pressed into a thin line. Beneath his eyes, dark circles appeared like inky smudges in the muted afternoon light.

“Have you not been sleeping for fear of what these waters have in store?” Valory pressed.

“I’ve been having dreams.”

Valory gave him a sharp look. “Dreams, or visions?”

Arden hesitated. “Dreams.” His eyes fell back down to the table. “Dreams only, but they’ve been troublesome.”

“Your enchantment?

Arden shrugged. “Perhaps. My dreams often give me impressions—”

“And those impressions haven’t been good ones,” Valory surmised.

“They’ve been quite ominous, in fact.”

“You share Hammond’s concerns.”

“In my dreams I watch _Windjammer_ splinter upon the shoals.”

“Ah.” Valory swallowed hard, hands tightening their grip upon Arden’s shoulders. He cast about for some sort of reply – some measure of positivity, some remark that would bring levity to the moment without sounding wildly inappropriate – but his mind was blank, and so he said nothing. He suspected that Arden knew better than to await a reply.

After all, what could one say to that?

…

Arden was up and out of his bunk before he worked out what had roused him. Waking so late and so groggy had him feeling wrong-footed; he hadn’t been such a heavy sleeper since his youth, when his enchantment had first begun to develop. It wasn’t until he felt the shift in the planks beneath his feet that he realized what had startled him out of a rare, dreamless sleep: _Windjammer_ had changed course. They were headed for deeper water.

He threw a shirt on over his sleeping trousers and charged up onto the deck where a fine drizzle gave the midmorning air a chill that reminded him of the coldest of Armathia’s seasons.

“Well, lad – you’ll not be winning any prizes for preparedness,” Callum snorted, gesturing down at Arden’s bare feet.

“We’ve changed course,” Arden replied without preamble.

“As you say.” Callum’s eyes lifted to the water beyond, drawing Arden’s attention to the horizon. Shoals flanked them on two sides. Short of turning around and heading back the way they came, their only recourse would be to make for deeper water. They had finally reached the point where the shallows could no longer protect them from what lurked on the other side.

Arden turned back towards Theo, spinning on bare feet. “There’s no other option? Nothing but deep water?”

“Only one way out of it, Lord Arden.”

Something sank within him at Theo’s words, heavy and hard enough that it almost bent him over double. He clutched at the binnacle for support as Callum began to speak.

“Theo says we’ll not reach the drop for at least a day or so, if that—”

Words sounded muted and dim beyond the ringing in Arden’s ears, his enchantment singing so loud it drowned out all else. Dread opened up a pit in his stomach. He turned away towards the quarterdeck steps before Callum finished his sentence, knowing it for an insult of the highest order yet unable to listen to more. On some level he was aware that his departure had stunned Callum to silence and brought Gabriel and Valory’s watchful eyes onto his back, but neither slowed his stride.

Arden made it to midships before Valory caught up with him.

“What’s going on with you?” he hissed through his teeth, stepping between Arden and the companionway to arrest his progress.

“I—” Arden shook his head. How could he explain, when he didn’t know himself? Powerful intuition and accurate hunches were the only sort of prescience he’d ever experienced – this was something else entirely.

How to tell Valory that his dreams were driven by his talent, but in ways he couldn’t quite comprehend, let alone define? How to describe the feeling of slowly losing one’s grasp on one’s mind after weeks of sleepless nights? How to make Valory understand his bone-deep frustration with his gift of Sight – for if he had been stronger, if his talent weren’t so meager, perhaps he would know what all of this _meant_.

“You are unwell,” Valory said, ducking to force Arden to meet his eyes. “You are unwell and I’ve let it slide, but I ought to have known that for each of your struggles I’ve seen, you’d be hiding much more.”

“There’s nothing to tell. It’s all—” Arden gestured at his talisman. “But it’s meaningless. I don’t understand a thing. I can’t do a thing about any of it. I only know what I feel, and what I feel is—“ he broke off.

How to explain?

Valory took a step forward, crowding him towards the housetop as if he were afraid Arden would try to slip past him. He stopped with a hair’s breadth between them, arm out palm-up for Arden to take. “Then don’t explain your troubles. I only ask you share them with me.”

Arden knew on some level that this was not the right choice to make, but he was so weak with exhaustion and rife with need of relief that he caved. He slipped his arm into Valory’s to clasp, sagging at the bliss of feeling his burden halved by the familiar warmth of Valory’s enchantment. For a moment the fog in his mind parted and he had a brilliant moment of lucidity – and were Valory neither so stubborn nor so watchful he would have been able to wrest his arm from Valory’s grasp.

Between one heartbeat and the next his control slipped through his fingers. He felt the snap as he began yanking at Valory’s talent rather than the other way around, and as hard as he tried to dig in his heels it made no difference. The edges of his vision blurred. Valory was in front of him, he knew, but he could no longer focus on his face. The last thing he heard was Valory shouting his name.

Then everything went black.

_He woke up in the dark, not knowing whether or he had regained consciousness or never lost it at all, with no sense of time or space or anything around him. He was cold all over, images flickering before him like dim, guttering flames upon which he found himself unable to focus. It was something akin to a waking dream, or a vision perhaps, but nothing like the one he had in the coral rock church in Lyre. He couldn’t see his body, yet he felt the cold, felt the gooseflesh break out across his arms and legs, felt the fine hairs stand up on the back of his neck._

_He wasn’t alone._

_“Arden son of Miran.”_

_“Who are you?” He couldn’t form the words aloud, not as he was accustomed to speaking, but he knew he was understood._

_“A friend.”_

_The flicker of images slowed and sharpened. What had been a blur of faded blue turned into a man’s shoulder, his profile – Verne. There was a boy with him, darker skinned, yet his brother’s very picture. Arden knew the boy to be Alistair without prompting. As he watched, the boy bounced up to his tiptoes to give his father a one-harmed hug before darting away, hale and happy._

_The blue of Verne’s livery faded to a deep green. Rolling, rocky hills were set before him, crops laid out in neat rows as far as the eye could see. He’d call it a vineyard but the crops were nothing like grape vines. The hills boasted old, gnarled trees laden with fruits he didn’t recognize, and he knew that this was a place he had never before been – perhaps a place that wasn’t even contained within Oceana’s borders. A hint of white had him turning to see Valory walking beside him, and – Gods – was that *grey* in Val’s hair and beard? Something about the sight struck him, sticking in his throat. He and Val, growing old doing good work together – the Regent’s work._

_The white of Valory’s tunic faded and reformed to become the fountain that sat inside Armathia’s inner city gates. Arden was up high, mounted upon a stallion and riding home after – he knew – a successful mission in Saria. Here they were, bringing Siath his Queen and having won the alliance that would turn the tide of the war. Crowds of revelers pressed in on all sides, but all Arden could see was his father, stood-straight backed before the fountain, beaming with pride._

_Arden swallowed past the lump in his throat. He wanted those things – each of them – with a terrible, fathomless ferocity._

_“You have earned this happiness, son of Miran. I would help you find it, but first I need your help.”_

_The voice was friendly, kind. Scores of images chased the sound – visions in miniature of all the blessings that would be bestowed upon him in return for his faithfulness and aid. His heart rose with joy, and for a long time he stood there watching, proud, thinking that somehow he had proven himself worthy and the Goddess had seen fit to call him by name._

_Yet although his mind was foggy with contentment, a thought still nagged at the back of his mind – some memory—_

_Each time he tried to call it up to the forefront of his thoughts a new scene would appear before him, distracting him from his purpose. On some level he was aware that he was bearing witness to a great display of power, and while he knew he ought to be disturbed by it he found it impossible to rouse himself to true alarm. These were happy scenes. Wanting left him weak._

_“Who are you?” he wondered, trying to focus on any one of the myriad images that flickered through the darkness._

_“I can help you gain all that you’re owed – all that you are unjustly denied.”_

_In the end he found himself looking at Valory once more, not yet gone seventy, standing beneath the sweetflower trees in one of Armathia’s courtyards. Verne was there as well, and Agatha, with Alistair held close to her bosom. Arden knew he must have made some sort of quip or comment, for Valory threw his head back laughing, arm reaching out to land across Arden’s shoulders and pull him close. All the while Verne watched them, knowing, a shade of a smile upon his face._

_“You and the son of Eramen, standing together for all to see,” the voice whispered. “It is also what he desires. It is yours to take.”_

_For all that Arden wanted to capitulate, wanted to nod and shut his eyes and drift along with what the voice suggested, something about that word choice nagged at him._

_Who would refer to Valory only as Eramen’s son?_

_“The favor you ask,” he said, words forming in his thoughts with the slow viscosity of fresh honey, “is it because I have been slack? Have I not given enough thanks? Enough worship?” He pushed against the images, trying to clear his thoughts. “The Brother and Sister ask for nothing but the tokens of remembrance we put upon their altars.” He shook his head. “Who are you, who calls Valory by his lineage and not his title? Who are you, who seeks my favors?”_

_“A friend. One who would give you all that you’ve seen, if you stood with me.”_

_Arden pressed on, slow but sure. “No friend of mine possesses such power.”_

_“Would an enemy offer you this?”_

_Arden couldn’t look away from Conrad’s face when it appeared in front of him, brighter and more vivid than any of the scenes than had come before. He was in the courtyard of the House of Stewards, set up on one of the little stone benches with a tray of coffee and pastries. ‘Come brother,’ he beckoned, a wide smile spread across his face. ‘It has been too long.’_

_It would be easy to say yes. He *wanted* to say yes: to sit upon that stone bench with his brother, to take up one of his favorite honey cakes, to make as though Samir had never poured the draught that took Conrad’s life in Anaphe mere days after Windjammer_ ’s _departure. Yet such a scene could never be. Conrad was dead, and the promise made should have struck Arden as laughably empty._

_He didn’t doubt this being’s sincerity._

_“You are owed some happiness, son of Miran,” the whisper returned. “Join with me and I will see you live prosperous and powerful – a Lord of Armathia.”_

_Arden knew of a mere handful of beings who could promise power and glory and deliver when the day was through. He knew of only one who could reach past the veil to the souls who had crossed the sea with Illen. The offer affected him; it’d be a lie to say his resolve wasn’t tempted. But knowing who spoke to him was enough to shake the fog from his thoughts. The images that flickered around him faded. The whispered promises rang hollow._

_“I know who you are,” he said, willing himself not to waver. “I know what you stand for.”_

_The fog that shrouded him turned cold._

_From the darkness a final image emerged, playing out a scene that Arden knew all too well. As Windjammer beat through the icy Sarian seas, an ancient creature began its inexorable rise from the deep. The chase began, yet no matter the deftness of Windjammer’s maneuvers, the creature grew ever closer. As it herded Windjammer in towards the shoals Arden felt a violent shiver wrack his frame. Here was the same nightmare he had been having for weeks, played out in perfect detail. The dreams had been no trick of his imagination, no fiction of his sleeping mind – no, this was a vision that had been pressed onto him as he slept._

_“It would be unwise to say no to all that I offer.”_

_Windjammer splintered against the rocks. Arden was forced to watch, trapped, as each of his crew met a terrible end in a watery grave. He shook at the sight of Valory on the deck, grappling with a creature for which he was no match. His throat was raw from shouting but he heard no sound – nothing but the wrenching groan of Windjammer’s death throes as she split upon the reef. As the roaring whitecaps of the Sarian Sea dashed her into pieces, the creature dragged Valory beneath the waves. Arden watched in helpless horror he fought, struggled, stilled. The creature let him go in the end and he drifted, limp, down towards the inky depths, the white of his livery fading until he was out of sight._

_Chest heaving and eyes burning, Arden fought to remind himself that this was but a vision. This was a mere fiction, and trapped here though he was, Valory was safe. He was still shipboard, Windjammer still sailed—_

_“Have you reconsidered my offer?”_

_Fear and anger tore through him, making him run hot and cold all over. He said, once, that he would do anything to bring Valory back from the depths – to spare him such a fate. But he had sworn to Illen that he wouldn’t be tempted away from her: that giving aid to a demon would be too great a price to pay._

_“There is nothing in this world or the next that would see me bow to the Lord of the Damned.”_

_Zathár had no words for him in response. He felt the demon’s ire, his spinning, seething hatred deep in his bones and knew that he had as much of a mark on his back as any of Eramen’s heirs. It was that very rage that cracked open the darkness that shrouded him, and Arden knew that the demon couldn’t hold him here in this mental prison for much longer. His mind was too strong, and the demon yet too weak. Arden fought, thrashed, throwing himself out and up and—_

He gasped, the reflection of the sun off the sails nearly blinding him.

They were on deck before the midships companionway. He must have fallen when the vision took him, for he was sprawled on his back, legs akimbo. Valory was clutching him so hard he could feel the throbbing ache of fingerprint-shaped bruises already forming on his arms. Stark terror was writ large across Valory’s features – an expression that Arden immediately set to soothing with a hand to his cheek. It wasn’t an expression Valory was ever meant to wear.

“Was that?” Arden broke off, clearing his throat. It was sore, raw, as though he had screamed himself hoarse. Perhaps he had.

“A vision,” Valory said, quiet.

“How long?”

“A few minutes.”

Arden pulled back, propping himself up to sit. “I fell.”

Valory nodded.

“You caught me,” he guessed. “You set me down. Did I … did I talk at all, during?”

“No. But at the end—”

Arden didn’t need to hear the end of his sentence. He knew what had happened, in the end. He wasn’t a proper Seer, not the way Siath was. It didn’t surprise him that the vision had come and gone more like the night terrors he’d gotten as a child than anything a Seer would experience.

“I thought—” Valory broke off, shaking his head.

“Lads, Hammond is on his way. Best be moving along if you don’t want to explain this to him.”

Only then did Arden realize that they had an audience; Callum was standing above and behind him flanked by Ehrin, Félix, Little, and Gabriel. Shaking off the painful pinch of an impending headache, Arden held out an arm for Valory to pull him to his feet.

He straightened, patting at his belt to check that his weaponry hadn’t gone awry only to remember he wore nothing but a shirt and his sleeping trousers. The others remained silent, hands clasped together and creases furrowing the space between their brows. “I’m—” he almost said ‘fine’ but caught Gabriel’s narrow-eyed stare and thought better of it. “I’ll be alright. Just – I need a minute.”

“Take whatever time you need, lad,” Callum said, voice dropping to that kindly loll he used on struggling greenhorns. “We’ve got Theo at the helm and you sure got the others on deck right quick, with all that fuss. It’ll be a little while before we need you.”

“Thank you, Cap.” Arden turned away from the quiet stares of his crew, making for the main companionway with Valory hot on his heels. Valory followed him through the salon and into his cabin; as soon as the door was shut behind them he sank down, back dragging against the wood grain until he the floor came up to meet him.

Valory stood looking down at him for a long time, one hand on the door handle, something unreadable in his eyes. Things were never silent shipboard, but the sloshing rush of water against the hull and the gentle creak of _Windjammer_ ’s frame soon faded to white noise around them. Arden was about to speak when Valory moved, dropping down next to him. He surged forward, arms wrapping around Arden’s shoulders to clutch him close – almost painfully so.

“Val,” Arden whispered.

Valory buried his face in Arden’s shoulder, dragging himself closer until he was half in Arden’s lap. “Never do that to me again,” he said, words muffled against the fabric of Arden’s collar. “I thought I had done that to you.”

Arden laid a gentle hand on the crown of Valory’s head, fingers running through his dark, snarled strands. “It wasn’t you. Not in the way you thought.”

“I realized that when you started screaming. It didn’t ease my mind any.”

“You did me no harm.”

Valory pulled back just far enough to deliver a withering glare.

“You didn’t. You amplified my talent, perhaps, but—” Arden broke off, scrambling for words that would make any sort of sense. “I remembered it, this time. I felt it happen. Believe me when I say it wasn’t anything you gave. This was something that I _took_ from you.” Valory’s glare sharpened. “Not on purpose,” he defended. “Of course not on purpose.” He regarded Valory sidelong. “You know what I saw.”

“I know _who_ you saw.”

Arden tipped his head back against the door. “He’s powerful, Val. More than anything I’ve ever seen or felt. It’s terrifying. And he’s persuasive – but not as a man might be in the council chamber. It’s something else, something insidious. It fogs your mind until you can hardly remember your own conviction. It makes you want to agree with him even when you know it’s wrong.” He sighed. “I regret the things I’ve said to those who have been tempted. Standing against him wasn’t easy. He showed me everything I could ever possibly want.”

“You said no.” Valory’s voice was sharp. “You did, didn’t you?”

“I said no,” Arden whispered.

Valory’s grip on him eased some, a hand coming up to brush at his cheek. “It cost you.”

“He showed me the creature, in my vision. Showed me _Windjammer_ , and what the price would be for defying him. Saying ‘no’ may have cost all of us.”

“Agreeing to serve a demon is not an option.”

“I’m aware.”

Valory’s hand moved up to rub at Arden’s temple before carding through his hair. “Do you think that’s it? Do you think he’ll return for some sort of retribution? My brother—”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so. All that,” Arden waved a hand up towards the deck, “depended on a very specific set of circumstances. I don’t know whether he orchestrated it or whether he took advantage of my inability to control my gift of Sight, but he’s not strong enough to do me any real harm that way. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.”

“Not even in dreams? I know you’ve been telling me half-truths. Your dreams aren’t ordinary. He’s been exhausting you, wearing you down.”

“And maybe he’ll continue,” Arden shrugged. “I can’t imagine it takes nothing out of him to put such thoughts into my sleeping mind. Now that he knows my answer, perhaps he’ll direct his energies elsewhere. He was furious when I left him. I suspect he won’t give me a second chance at swearing my fealty.” He met Valory’s eyes. “He knows I stand with you.”

“He knows you for a faithful son of Drand.”

“In so many words.”

“What now, then?”

Arden shook his head. “I don’t know what you’d have me say. He’s powerful – Gods, beyond what you or I could ever possibly fathom. He made promises that—” A shiver wracked Arden’s frame. “He already controls the doorway to the locker, and that’s not enough for him. He seeks more. He promised me more. That’s what we’re fighting against.”

“How, then, can the thought of him touching your dreams fail to worry you?”

Arden snorted. “I never said that, did I? But if all he has in store for me are sleepless nights, well – that much I can manage.”

Valory gave him a long look but said no more on the matter. On deck the wind began to pick up once more, a low keening that sang through their _Windjammer_ ’s rig and vibrated through her hull. In the distance Arden could hear a faint rumble of thunder.

“The weather is turning,” Valory noted.

Arden shut his eyes. “It’s going to come for us.”

“The creature?”

“Just as I’ve seen a hundred times.”

Valory’s grip tightened around his shoulders, pulling him close. “We’ll be ready for it when it does.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made some massive changes as of 12/1/16.
> 
> If you started reading before the edit date, you're going to have to back up and reread chapter 13 in order for anything to make sense -- I rewrote the entire climax and conclusion of this book this fall.

_The Season of Heat  
Fanád the 2, 2422_

“Guess I shouldn’t be surprised to see you up on deck,” Theo said, offering up the helm for Arden to take as soon as he reached the cockpit.

Arden relieved him without a word. He was too exhausted to summon a clever reply, having spent the better part of the past four hours tossing and turning in an attempt to get to sleep. Although his dreams hadn’t recaptured their prior disturbing vividness they were still strange and unsettling, and he got little rest as a result. His only consolation was the suspicion that precise imagery was either beyond Zathár’s strength or no longer worth the effort to produce for someone who had so blatantly rejected his offer.

The silence stretched between he and Theo at the helm as Arden gathered his thoughts, knowing that despite his worn-down mind he owed the man some sort of response. “There’s been an improvement,” he finally muttered, sliding up atop the gear box as Theo settled down next to him. Lightning lit the clouds in the distance, a sight that was becoming all too common on night watches.

“Can’t say I know what you mean by that,” Theo replied. At Arden’s cocked brow, he continued, “Maybe that’s what I’ve earned, for giving you Oceanic a hard time over not understanding Oreler’s gifts.”

Arden returned Theo’s smile with a small one of his own – the first he could remember in what felt like ages. “You’ve been right to poke fun. I ought to know more than I do – especially if I’m to have any hope of helping Val win a treaty with Oldred.”

“Fair enough, Lord Arden – _but the land that never thoughts is something else entirely_.”

Arden held the helm fast as a wave hit them right on the beam. “ _I can’t imagine it._ ”

“ _It’s very cold_.”

“ _You’ve been that far north_?”

“ _Not all the way to Wittburn. Wittburn is—_ ” he broke off, eyes trained off their port beam in a faraway stare. “ _Those who go to Wittburn don’t often come back_.”

Theo’s words startled Arden back into his mother tongue. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“ _No one goes there just to visit, is what I’m saying. The closest settlement to Wittburn is many miles away, south of the thaw. Any who live past that are still Sarian, but don’t have much to do with Oldred. Most of what I’ve heard is rumor, of course, but the merchants I’ve worked with say that the glacier people are different. They have their own ways_.”

Arden’s interest was piqued. “How so?”

“ _People go north when they have no other choice. Convicts, when they’re released from the camps and can’t find work because of their papers. Men who go bankrupt. Women who’ve lost their honor. I know a woman who went North with her son. He was born disfigured – out of favor with the Gods. When her husband passed and no other would have her, she went to join the glacier people._ ”

“The Queen lives there.”

“ _It’s where she fled to, they say. She was like them, in a way, refusing her place_.”

Arden gripped the spokes of the helm, assimilating this new information. “This is all conjecture though, isn’t it?”

“ _Secondhand, maybe, but it’s what we know of the lands up there. During the thaws they come south to trade, and all I’ve ever heard is what the merchants who deal with them are willing to say_.”

“The King has sent men north to fetch his sister though, hasn’t he? I’ve heard tell of it – and she continues to turn his messengers away.”

Theo shrugged. “ _They can tell you what’s up there better than I. All I know is, if you want pelts or blubber, ambergris, seal skin – you’ve got to trade with the glacier people. They’re the only ones who can get their hands on such things_.”

“I suppose they’re the only ones who would want to live up there; the land can’t be cultivated, can it?”

“ _Not even by those with the greatest talent. Even they can’t thaw the soil_.”

Arden tapped his fingers against a spoke. “Your people must consider such a life unfit for the civilized.”

“ _In a way. It’s a place where those without harvest talents can go and be valued as another pair of hands, you see? But then, the Ice Queen has a different kind of talent. They say she can speak to whales._ ”

Arden no longer doubted that such an ability could exist, but it still stretched the limits of his imagination. “What does that mean for Carlin, that his sister is both the rightful Queen and a woman of great talent?”

Theo cocked his head as though he was listening to a sound that only he could hear. “ _Two more degrees to port_.” He looked back from the binnacle to meet Arden’s eyes. “ _The Queen is one of Oreler’s true daughters. Most think the late King was a fool for putting her on the throne. They say she should have gone to the church instead, and I tend to agree with them. After all, look where it got us_.”

“Right.” Arden held _Windjammer_ steady, eyes roving over the trim of her sails. “Tell me, what else do you know of her talent? All the stories I’ve heard made mention of other kinds of water creatures – not just whales.”

“ _That’s true enough, from what I’ve been told, though they say she’s partial to creatures of the deep sea. She’s powerful_.” Theo bent to adjust the trim of the main sheet. “ _It’s a lucky thing that you and your Regent are as Blessed as you are._ ”

“Yeh,” Arden murmured, only half paying attention to Theo’s words. “So if her talent runs to sea creatures, do you suppose that had anything to do with her reasons for leaving Oldred? The capital is far from the ocean.”

Theo shrugged, standing and leaning up against the binnacle once more. “ _Noblewomen are a flighty lot. I don’t think any know her reasons, providing she had a set of them_.”

They fell quiet at that, each keeping to his own thoughts. Arden forced his focus away from the lightning in the distance, staring instead straight ahead at the dark waters before them. Somewhere out there was the final cut in the reef that would put them past the shoals of Wittenthor on their way to the deep water that would mark the final stretch of their passage to Elvford.

Was it out there, still? Did it wait for them? Had Zathár sent it to finish the job it started when Anaphe fell to Dramorian hands?

“Just spit it out, son,” Theo said, as if he could hear the words on the tip of Arden’s tongue.

Arden cast a glance his way. “You can feel it out there, can’t you?”

Theo’s kind, open countenance appeared drawn and grim in the dim lantern light. “Not the way you think. Whatever it is, it’s … other. It doesn’t belong here – not in Ranael’s domain, not in Oreler’s. I feel it less than I feel the fish around it – the space they give it. It’s a void in my mind, as though a big empty space is following us, just at the edge of my reach.”

“That’s … unsettling,” Arden murmured.

Theo gave a sigh, tipping his head back against the gallows. “You’re telling me.”

They finished the rest of the watch in silence.

…

“That’s it exactly,” Ehrin said, her voice hushed in a half-whisper. “He can be so kind, and then he goes and ruins it all by saying something so _stupid_.”

“From what I’ve heard, Armathia and Oldred have—” Theo broke off, peering into the thick fog that shrouded _Windjammer_ on all sides.

“Should I get the others?” she asked, pulling her oilskin tighter about her shoulders. Ehrin wasn’t much for superstition, but old sailor’s talk of the curses and misfortune that lived in the fog did nothing to stay her nerves. They had kept a running conversation at the helm ever since Félix and Niko went forward on bow watch, muttering about the past days’ events in an attempt to stave off some of the uneasiness brought on by the heavy blanket of white that had appeared around them when night turned to day.

After a long look off to port, Theo’s countenance cleared. “We’re passing the last of the shoals into deeper water. It’s out there, but – it’s not moving to approach us.” His eyes slipped shut. “What was I saying? Ah, right – Lord Hammond. He’s Armathian, through and through.”

“Not all Armathians are nationalists. The Regent’s not like that,” she protested.

Theo shrugged. “Not so extreme, perhaps.”

“Is Oldred’s opinion of Oceana built on that, then – on what the old biddies in the Armathian court believed a generation ago?”

“You make it sound so silly, Miss Ehrin. Have you forgotten that the last Regent to visit Oldred in an official capacity _did_ come and go a generation ago? What other perception are Sarians meant to have?”

Ehrin folded her arms across her chest. “Then this visit ought to put them to rights – if Hammond keeps his mouth shut, that is.”

“I wouldn’t have thought his love of Oceana would earn him a Kilcoranian enemy.”

“Yeh, well, it’s not politics keeping me from being Hammond’s champion,” Ehrin muttered.

“I’d suppose not.” Theo cast her a sidelong smile. “I heard he had some words with Félix.”

She huffed, not trusting herself with a reply. It was bad enough that the lads had all figured out she was mooning after Félix; they were giving her even more grief than usual. The last thing she wanted was for one of them to let any of it slip to Félix – not before she had figured out what was going on between them, at any rate.

“That’s beside the point, and not why I’m annoyed with him,” she said. “Last night he realized that I stand a watch with the lads and ran his mouth about it. Makes me pity his daughters, it does.”

“It _is_ unusual, you know.” Theo’s words were softened by his gentle smile, one which let her know he had no bone to pick with her on the matter.

“Yeh, but it’s none of his business who my Da puts on the deck, is it? He questioned Da’s judgment, and strode off to speak about it with Arden, like he couldn’t conceive of a world in which the Regent’s Steward would let a woman work the lines,” she snarled.

Theo reached out to squeeze her shoulder. “What did Lord Arden say?”

“Dunno. I went back to the fo’c’sle straight away. I knew I’d blow my lid if I was anywhere near the salon for that little chat.”

“I’m sure it will amount to nothing. We’re only a pair of days out from Elvford,” Theo reminded her. He made a face as he did, glancing back up to the sky. The rain had begun to spit again, a light mist that slicked up the deck and put an uncomfortable chill in the air.

“I’ll be glad enough when we’re there,” she mumbled. “This passage has my hackles up.” When Theo didn’t reply she glanced back at the helm to see him staring out into the ghostly fog once more, mouth pressed into a thin line. “Is it the creature?”

“Yes, but no.” He didn’t take his eyes off of the port bow. “I don’t like this weather. A man goes over in this fog and we’ll never find him.”

A shiver went up her spine. “D’you want me to check up on the bow watch?” A look forward and she realized that the fog had become so dense she could barely see the foredeck.

“Would you call them back? No point having them up there when they can’t see past the end of the jib boom.”

Though she was no longer a little girl who believed that monsters lingered unseen in morning fog, Ehrin couldn’t help thinking that there was something malevolent about the cool lick of it against her skin. Relief warmed her as she approached the foredeck steps and the capstan came into view. Félix and Niko were crouched opposite one another, features drawn and guarded.

“See anything interesting?” she asked, aiming for humor and missing; the furrow between Félix’s brows deepened.

Niko heaved a sigh, unfolding his legs to sprawl them out in the space between the capstan and the fo’c’sle hatch. “I’ve been trying to tell Belen we see weather like this in the north, but—”

“This is sorcery,” Félix muttered, continuing on to swear under his breath in Belenese. “I do not like it.”

Niko snorted. “No one does.”

“Yeh,” Ehrin agreed. “Theo’s none too pleased, and I’ll admit this kind of fog always gets me right spooked.” She saw movement out of the corner of her eye and looked up, staring hard into the fog before realizing it was nothing – a trick of the imagination, the sort that drove Ithakan fishermen mad. “We’ve been yammering up at the helm, trying not to dwell too much. Come join us, will you? Bow watch is a wash, anyway.”

She stuck out a hand to help Félix to his feet, leading them aft towards the quarterdeck. The walk was easy; half of their sails down and canvas reduced on the others, their progress through the water was steady and slow. Though it was quiet beneath the blanket of fog, _Windjammer_ rocked with the occasional mournful howl of wind through the rig. The intermittent gusts were all the clue they needed to know that unpredictable conditions lay ahead of them.

Ehrin was unsurprised to find Arden awake and about when they reached the quarterdeck. “Something wrong down below?” she asked.

He looked up as the three of them approached, giving a nod to the lads before answering. “Nothing in particular. I couldn’t sleep.”

Ehrin heaved out a sigh. “Yeh. Where’s Val?”

“Still asleep. Snoring.” Arden’s lips curled upward. “Hogging my blankets.”

“Dug the woolies out, did you?”

“Val finds the chill unsupportable – must be his thin Midlander blood.”

Theo shook his head, brows raised in disbelief. “If he thinks this is cold, he’s got another thing coming to him.”

“To be sure.” The wind gusted up again, whistling through the rig. Arden looked up, eyes following its path. Ehrin supposed that, with his enchantment, he could see the breeze in the same sort of way that Theo could see the fish. “You’ve got a conservative sail plan run.”

“The weather gets shifty this time of year, when the days are warm and the nights are cold,” Theo replied. “Didn’t want to get caught out with full canvas run if it starts to blow.”

Arden took a breath, turning his eyes skyward. “It feels like it’s going to squall.”

“Yes,” Félix agreed. “It smells like thunder.”

Ehrin supposed that this sort of claim would sound strange to a landsman, but knew the precise feeling that Félix described. “We passed a line of squalls to the north a few hours back.”

“Hm.”

“Any sign of . . .” Arden trailed off.

Theo shook his head. “It’s still out there, but it’s not moving.”

They fell quiet at that, five pairs of eyes staring out into the fog. The silence was tense, unnerving. Another long moan of the wind rattled across the deck. The hair on the back of her neck stood up.

“So,” she said, fidgeting with the hem of her oilskins. She had little to say, but wanted nothing more than to fill the uneasy silence.

Theo shot her a grateful look. “Heard you had words with Lord Hammond last night.”

“Me?” Arden turned. “I have words with him every night. I’ve been poring over the notes he’s amassed throughout the course of his service.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Arden’s brow creased with concern. “Has he said anything to you that I should worry about?”

“He’s asking on my behalf,” Ehrin said. “I was whinging about it earlier.”

“Oh, _that_ ,” Arden grimaced. “If it’s any consolation, he didn’t question your competence, but my judgment. He thinks it’s an unseemly risk to expose you to the rigors of deck-work. It’s probably for the best that you left the salon when you did; he went on for some time about how the lifestyle would have damaged your marriage prospects.”

Ehrin snorted. “Doesn’t spend much time with those beneath his station, does he?”

“Hammond is from a different world, even within the nobility. He’s a diplomat and an economist. He never did military service, because he inherited his title and position from his father – one I’m not entirely sure he wanted to begin with – though as a result he knows Saria as well as any man of Oceana.”

“But?”

Arden shrugged. “He understands little else.” The wind picked up once more, whistling through _Windjammer_ ’s running rig. “Is everything battened down?” As he spoke, the light drizzle turned heavier.

“We secured all the hatches and port lights when the watch changed,” she replied, pulling her collar tight about her neck. “The jib and fore are furled and tied down and the launch lashed in place. Did a few deck walks, cleared up anything that could blow away.”

“Alright, then.”

The rain grew heavier still, fog lifting from their bow. Ehrin tugged the brim of her hat down, bracing against the pelting slap of rain she could already hear on the foredeck – but it wasn’t rain that hit them. A glance forward had her staring, mouth agape, as little white pebbles skittered as they landed before the mast. “What in Fángon’s name is that?”

“Never seen hail before?” Theo muttered. “Well, now you have.”

A clap of thunder sounded from above them, not overhead but close enough to make all of them jump. Ehrin craned her neck but couldn’t see where the storm was; the clouds above them were as white as the lifting fog.

“Get Callum.”

Ehrin’s head snapped up at Theo’s words. She didn’t need to be told twice. Throwing open the companionway doors she took the steps two at a time, skidding around the corner into her father’s cabin. He was halfway out of his bunk by the time she stopped in the doorway.

“Weather?” he asked.

“It’s turning.”

That was all he needed to hear. “Two minutes,” he said, staggering out of bed as _Windjammer_ rocked with a sudden gust of wind.

Ehrin turned and ran back to the deck, knowing that her father would be up far faster than that; he had been sleeping fully clothed for nights on end. It was only when she reached the helm that she realized the weather hadn’t been the only reason Theo had summoned her father.

The creature hovered on the surface just astern of them, slick like oil and black as the locker itself. It was a relic of a time gone by, when the Gods had walked the Eastern Shores alongside Eramen and Drand and Zathár reigned over the world of men. It drew towards them with a slow slide that Ehrin would have called graceful were it not so ominous – were it not the slinking stalk of a predator closing in on its prey.

“Sound the alarm,” Callum said, bursting through the companionway doors onto deck. Niko leapt into action at his word, running forward to the ship’s bell, shouting as he did.

“What in Fángon’s name is this?” Callum continued, flinching away from the hail that pinged down around them.

“Hail. We have weather coming,” Theo said.

“Weather, we can handle. We have bigger problems than that,” Callum countered. “It’ll take all of us to face this thing—”

Félix and Arden stepped up beside Callum as the creature drew nearer, weapon at the ready, standing tall and unflinching in the face of the beast Zathár had sent for them. Ehrin’s hand slipped to the hilt of her cutlass. Cold fire ran through her, taking away some of the sting of the hail, deadening the wail of the wind through the rig. She drew her blade, weighing it in her hands. Her focus narrowed to the creature alone, tracking the movements of its tentacles, following each menacing twist of its body as it slid through the water towards their stern.

Ehrin had watched some of the ocean’s greatest predators hunt their quarry before, and this felt eerily akin to that; the creature rose out of the water as it drew near, tentacles breaching the water’s surface and mantle rolling back to expose rows of razor-sharp teeth.

“Gods, it’s huge,” she whispered. If the creature wanted, it could wrap around _Windjammer_ ’s keel and drag them down to the deep with little ceremony. It could crack their hull in two like a fishwife opening an oyster. They’d splinter here, in deep water, days out from Elvford. They’d—

Arden pushed past Félix, hand extended. A bright flash lit the air before him – a single white-hot flame breaching the distance between _Windjammer_ and the creature. The thing didn’t even flinch. Arden stepped back, hand straying to the hilt of his cutlass as he exchanged a look with Félix.

“I could try lighting an arrow, but I don’t know what good it’d do. It’s not afraid.”

“We must turn downwind,” Félix said, urgent, voice rising above the slap of hail on the deck. “We must run from it. There is no other choice.”

The last time she’d heard Félix sound like that was when he’d recounted the story of his time as a Januzian captive. That even he, the finest sailor and swordsman among them, considered the creature beyond their match, set her hands trembling.

“It’s too fast,” Theo said, words coming out like an apology.

The look on Félix’s face reminded her of Arden, the first day they had seen the creature – stricken, haunted. Tears welled up in Ehrin’s eyes as the creature continued to advance, but she held her cutlass before her, standing at the ready, fist white-knuckled around the blade.

“Please,” she whispered, so quiet that none could hear her over the rattling of hail against the quarterdeck and the whip of wind through the rig, “Illen, my Lady, please. Ranael, we are your most faithful children. Please, _please_ – stand with us, help us, _please_ —”

Thunder boomed from overhead, so loud it vibrated through her chest. The air around them grew suddenly cold, gooseflesh rising up and down her arms. After so many years on the water, she knew what that sudden drop in temperature meant. She had already taken a step towards the helm when she heard Arden’s gasp of surprise, followed by Theo’s voice rising in a string of Sarian she couldn’t understand.

“It’s a downdraft,” Arden translated, voice rising in urgency as he realized what Theo was saying. “It’s forming right over us – someone get ready on the main sheet!”

“Arden,” Theo barked, switching back to Oceanic, “bar the companionway doors or we will take too much water.” He raised his voice, shouting forward to Niko. “Keep the rest below, we have to get out of here!”

“Wait,” Callum said. Ehrin froze halfway to the main sheet.

“We have little time, Captain.”

“A downdraft, you said? A white squall?” He looked aft to where the creature had further narrowed the gap between them. “And what if the creature was hit by one of those?”

“Are you insane?” Theo spat through gritted teeth. “I am your pilot, charged with your safe passage—”

“We won’t be going very far with that thing on our heels. Would the squall stop it? Could it?”

“I don’t know! White squalls have wiped ships right off the face of Ranael’s waters – but a creature?” Theo shook his head.

Behind them, the creature had stretched out alongside them, sinewy arms reaching towards their hull. “We have to try,” Callum said. “We _have to_.”

“Da,” Ehrin warned. Above them the air had started to move, clouds turning to form a spiral, its center just above their foremast.

“A white squall could _sink us_ , Captain,” Theo plead. “We must go.”

“Your God-magic cannot fend off this creature?” Félix asked.

They all turned to look at Arden at once. He had since barred the doors to seal off the main companionway, leaning with his back to them. His complexion was ashen, sweat beading on his brow in spite of the cold, in spite of the flecks of ice raining down all around them.

“If fire won’t even give it pause—” He shook his head. “Nothing can.”

The wind began to pick up, shifting from their port bow upward. Ehrin had never before seen anything like it – a wind that came from overhead – and she felt _Windjammer_ respond with sluggish confusion beneath her feet.

Callum was at the helm in a few strides, standing toe-to-toe with Theo to meet his eyes. “We’ve no good options, true. But I’d rather face a storm of Ranael’s making than a creature of Zathár’s.”

Theo opened his mouth to argue, but thought better of it. He turned away from Callum, training his eyes on the clouds that swirled above their heads. “We wait until we feel the blow, but no longer.”

“At the ready,” Arden warned, drawing his cutlass.

The ship juddered with the impact of the creature bumping against the hull. Ehrin tripped over her feet, nearly losing her balance as _Windjammer_ jolted to starboard. Pounding and rattling began against the main companionway doors. She figured Valory was still down there, was livid; Arden shouted something through the doors but the whistle of the wind had grown so loud she could no longer hear what he was saying.

A tentacle came over the cap rail, swatting aft from midships where the creature had latched. It missed Félix by mere inches; he dropped to hit the deck beneath it, rolling into a crouch. He sprang and struck a heartbeat later, hitting home with a clean blow that set the creature howling. Ehrin clutched at her ears; the whole hull shook with the sound.

Félix wrenched his sword back. The gash oozed black but wasn’t enough to make the tentacle retreat. Instead, two more rose up from the water. As _Windjammer_ crested over a wave Ehrin could see the empty pits that once were its eyes watching them from the surface: two hollows set above the thousands of knife-sharp teeth that lined its maw. Félix stumbled back away from the creature’s advance, weapon raised for all the good it would do, maneuvering himself between the creature and the helm.

Thunder crashed, shaking Ehrin in her boots. The sight she saw when she looked up stole the breath from her lungs.

A column of white stretched down from the clouds that at first looked like a waterspout, but was unlike any she had ever before seen. Before she could open her mouth to warn the others, _Windjammer_ began to heel over. She reached out, scrabbling at the edge of the gear box, fighting to keep herself upright.

“It’s time, Captain,” Theo shouted, words barely audible over the roar of the wind.

Callum dodged another swipe of a tentacle. “Get my girl out of here.”

The column of white touched down – and it was pandemonium. The ocean around them turned white with the force of the wind, whipping and foaming. Theo’s shouted order to get to the main sheet was the last thing she heard before it hit them, a wall of wind so strong it slammed _Windjammer_ ’s sails hard to leeward. Ehrin tumbled as they heeled, back thumping against the cap rail.

Within moments the ship was overpowered, pushed over by the wind, frigid water sloshing in through the scuppers the further underwater the cap rail fell. In a blink Ehrin was in up to her knees. She gasped at the shock of impact, hands wrapping white-knuckled around the rail.

Ehrin braced for _Windjammer_ to right itself, for the ship’s heavy keel to swing the rig back upright again with a wicked snap – but the starboard side stayed down, cap rail dipping further and further into the frigid Sarian sea.

They had waited too long. They were being blown flat.

Wind screaming in her ears Ehrin gave a frantic push from the cap rail, reaching for the deck that now sloped steep before her. Her feet slipped out from under her, sliding back to land in the ever-rising tide rushing in through the scuppers. She heard her name called and looked up to see Félix clinging to the gear box, arm extended her way like a lifeline. Next to him Theo had the helm hard over, his bellowed orders lost in the wail of the wind.

“ _Give me your hand_ ,” Félix demanded, eyes wild. _Windjammer_ gave a shuddering groan, the very bones of her hull protesting as the wind began to force her over onto her side.

They were going to capsize.

Ehrin shook her head, fighting against the swirling water that now bit at her thighs. If she grabbed Félix’s hand, she could save herself. But if she could let the main sheet go it would spill the air from their sails, right them enough to run with the wind, keep the sails from hitting the water. If she didn’t—

At first she thought the splintering crack came from the clouds overhead, and craned her neck to see what new horror the squall had made for them. She watched, helpless, as their foremast gave under the pressure, the topmost third snapping clean off and swinging toward the water like a battering ram. Bits of the running rigging snapped around them like violin strings, whip-crack loud as they broke under the strain. The broken foremast went over the cap rail in a mess of tangled lines and _Windjammer_ gave a wild heave; with another sail lost, she bucked out of Theo’s control.

Ehrin heard a scream but couldn’t know where it came from. The boat threw her for another roll, a flash of something rushing past her. She had to get to the main sheet. She was the only one who could.

Ehrin dove inboard to the mainsail cleat, water rushing up to meet her, cold enough to punch the air from her lungs. It was habit to open her eyes when her head went under, but she was met with nothing but swirling darkness. The water was murky and wild around her, and for a moment she thought she had been swept over the side.

Her palm connected with something solid and she choked back a sob of relief. Her eyes burned from the cold, lungs aching for want of air as she clawed at the line wrapped around the cleat, knowing the shape of the knot even blinded by the sea. She struggled to tug the line free, panic rising in her breast. If she couldn’t get the line to run free this would be the end – _Windjammer_ would go down in the Sarian channel, surrounded by cold and creatures, with nary another ship for miles. They would die here.

Ehrin couldn’t accept that fate lying down.

She kicked and twisted, scrabbling for purchase as she yanked at the tight twist of wet hemp, lungs on fire and firefish swimming at the edges of her eyes. Her foot connected with something solid – the cap rail, perhaps – and she sent up a silent, fervent prayer to Illen. It was all the purchase she needed. The twist of the lock came free, and only years of sailing kept her fist from being sucked into the cleat as the line flew past, burning her skin with the friction of it.

The world tumbled above her. With a jerking heave _Windjammer_ righted herself, water draining from her scuppers, pitching and rolling as she swung off the wind. Ehrin took a great gasping breath, clutching at the solid planks of the deck beneath her fingers. From above she could hear the sound of Theo’s shouts, the thunderclap of a flogging mainsail, the shrill cry of the wind – but all of it seemed muted by the drumming of her heart and her choking gasps for breath.

Warm hands landed upon her back and shoulders and she raised her head, world snapping into focus as Félix and Arden dragged her to her feet. They were both soaked. “You scared the _shit_ out of me,” Arden managed, a hysterical burst of laughter escaping his throat.

“M’fine,” she replied, stunned when she realized that it was no more than the truth.

“That was some good work.” His throat bobbed with a hard swallow, all trace of levity gone in the space of a breath. Ehrin had sailed with him long enough to know what he meant. Her split-second decision had kept _Windjammer_ afloat.

The wind came over their transom now, not as hard as it had at first but still as strong as any gale she had ever seen, turning the surface of the sea hazy with its force. The hail had let up in favor of steady rain. Yet with both wind and waves astern, _Windjammer_ no longer pitched and heaved quite so wildly upon the ocean’s surface; if they could run with the wind, they would wait out the squall.

“The creature,” she said, stumbling towards the binnacle as they rode a wave that rose up higher than the deck itself.

“Down deep,” Theo said, teeth gritted and body pressed tight against the helm to hold it in place.

“What do you mean, ‘down deep’?”

“That’s all I can tell you.”

Beside them Arden had begun his struggle with the flogging main, his grunted swearing drawing Félix away to come to his aid.

“Oh Gods,” she said, looking up at the rig for the first time.

Their foredeck was a battlefield. Niko, Jonah, and Little were up there together, working at a frantic pace to secure the billowing canvas of the furled staysail and jibs, attached by countless snarled lines to the jagged stump that once was their foremast. She sucked in a breath. The force it would take to snap a mast – she could hardly believe _Windjammer_ had survived it.

“They cut away the rest of it already,” Félix said, appearing at her elbow once more. “It was covered in the black blood of the creature.”

“It hit the creature?” she asked. “Da was right, then. Da, you were—” Ehrin turned to Callum’s spot beside the helm. “Da?”

Arden’s head snapped up from the main. “He went forward when the wind hit, saw the foremast starting to go—”

Ehrin ran. She jumped the steps to midships, slipping and sliding on the deck, clumsy and numb with cold. He must have gotten fouled in a line, or he was helping the lads, or he had gone down below to check _Windjammer_ ’s bilges – her galley would have been turned on its head, after all, and who knows what the creature did to their hull –

“Slow down, girl,” Lars said, coming out of what seemed like nowhere to catch her around the shoulders. “You’ll go right into the drink running around like that. You know better—”

“Where’s Da?” she asked, lips trembling.

Niko whirled around from where he’d been tying down the staysail halyard. “What d’you mean, where’s your Da? He was up on the quarterdeck when—” Niko broke off, eyes flicking back and forth between her and the helm. “No.” He shook his head. “No, no—”

Ehrin turned, breaking away from Lars’ grasp to throw open the midships companionway hatch. “Da!” she shouted, only to see Hammond’s wan countenance appear in his doorway. She slammed the hatch shut, spinning to run back to the foredeck, dodging the jungle of standing rigging that wilted from their shattered mast.

“Da?” she called, pulling open the fo’c’sle hatch. The compartment was empty. She stood, panic rising in her breast as Lars met her eyes from the forward companionway, a single shake of his head telling her everything she needed to know.

Heedless of _Windjammer_ ’s wobble upon the waves they rode, she thought only of haste as ran for the quarterdeck, making her way to the main companionway doors with single-minded focus—

“Ehrin.” Arden stopped her before she made it to the handle. “I was holding the doorframe when we tipped.” His voice cracked. “He’s not down there.”

She felt herself begin to shake, full body tremors that felt like hot shivers so violent they made her teeth rattle. “We have to turn around. We have to—”

Arden’s eyes were wet, his voice low and strained. “Look behind us. We can’t go back.”

They had escaped by a hairsbreadth. Behind them, the whipping white squall that had come down from the clouds raged like the wrath of Ranael. All was a swirling blanket of white. Somewhere past it lay the shoals of Wittenthor, and there was no telling whether or not the squall would throw them onto the rocks if they attempted to traverse it. Somewhere in the midst the creature remained. Theo said the thing was down deep, but there was no telling whether that meant the thing had foundered, or whether it was merely too injured to give chase.

Ehrin knew in her heart of hearts that there was nothing for it. The sea off their stern rolled and boiled like water in a cauldron. No man could swim that. No man could survive it.

Not even her Da.

She covered her face with her hands. Her tears were hot when they ran through her fingers, sobs shaking her shoulders, palms pressed against her lips to keep herself from crying aloud. From the distance came another weak rumble of thunder – they were putting space between _Windjammer_ and the squall.

Long fingers wrapped around her wrists, pulling her hands away from her face. She surged forward, throwing herself into Félix’s embrace. One of his arms wrapped snug around her waist as the other palm came up to press at the back of her head, her neck, her shoulders – checking for injury, she realized.

“ _I am sorry for your loss, my little warrior_.”

Behind Félix, Arden unbolted the main companionway doors. They swung open to reveal Valory stood upon the companionway steps, wearing nothing but his smallclothes. Ehrin regarded him through tear-blurred eyes. He looked an utter wreck – tight-lipped and disheveled – desperate enough to get up to the deck that he hadn’t bothered with a shirt. She had never seen him bare-chested before, not even on the hottest days, and she suspected Armathian propriety hadn’t been the only reason; the scars of a life lived by the sword marked him, some of which she could scarcely believe he had survived.

Valory didn’t notice her scrutiny. His head whipped from side to side until he spotted Arden beside the doorway. At the sight of his man Valory’s entire frame sagged with relief, hand raised in a silent entreaty.

Arden reached him in a single stride. Their hands slipped around to the back of one another’s necks, heads dipping forward to rest foreheads together. It was a simple gesture, one that echoed the knot that filled Ehrin’s chest – albeit for different reasons. Valory pulled away after a quiet moment, drawing in a ragged breath.

“What was _that_?” he demanded, words lacking none of their usual authority despite his state of undress.

“A squall like I’ve never seen,” Arden replied. “Downdraft hit us dead on.”

“And the creature?”

Arden opened and shut his mouth. “Gone, we think. We lured it into the storm. Félix thinks our foremast might have hit it—”

“Our foremast.”

“We’re . . . worse for the wear.” Valory tried to push past him onto the deck, but Arden held up a hand to stay his progress, all trace of softness gone from his features. “Val. Callum is gone.”

Valory’s eyes flicked up to meet hers, something soft in his otherwise piercing stare. She didn’t flinch from it. She had nothing to say.

He scrubbed a hand down his face, touching two fingers to his brow before drawing up to his full height. “My brother will see that his name is remembered with honor. I know it means little, but it’s all I can offer.” He dropped his eyes. “I’m sorry, Miss Ehrin. The loss is all of ours. He was a good man.”

Ehrin knew she was shaking; Félix’s arms were wrapped hard around her, as though he was keeping her from breaking to pieces then and there on the quarterdeck. “He’d want us to think of the vessel first,” she said, voice thick.

Valory gave her a mute nod before turning to Arden. “Are we out of danger, then? Should we expect more of those?”

Arden licked his lips. “It’s possible, but it looks like it’s clearing up ahead. Either way I need to get down to the bilges, see if there’s damage.” He must have heard the pat of booted feet up the quarterdeck steps, for he issued the next order without turning. “Niko, I need you to check on Hammond and the others.”

Niko hesitated, teeth biting into his lower lip. One look toward Ehrin and he deflated, head hung and shoulders sagging. “Aye, Jack.” He disappeared back forward once more.

“How can I help?” Valory asked.

“We can start inspecting the bilges – though you’ll want to put some trousers on, first.” He turned back to Theo. “You’re fine at the helm?”

“Go. It feels like we’re sitting right, but I’ll feel better after you’ve checked for damage,” Theo replied.

“Keep us on course for Elvford. Have one of the lads come to get me if the weather shifts or there’s any sign of the creature,” Arden said. Everyone on deck heard his words for what they were – a Captain giving standing orders to his helmsman. A choked noise escaped Ehrin’s throat.

Arden turned, opening his mouth as if to say something – as if to ask forgiveness, or permission, or to offer some words of comfort – but abandoned the thought in favor of turning to take her hands in his. She squeezed his knuckles hard, raising her chin and giving him a tight jerk of a nod.

He wasn’t her Da. Her Da was gone. But she would follow her brother-by-choice to the locker if he asked it of her.

Arden gave her hands one last press before releasing them, turning to the companionway and beckoning Valory after him without another word.

Lightning flashed across the sky. Ehrin held her breath and counted; the thunder came almost a minute later, a soft rumble in the distance. _Windjammer_ sailed on, balanced by a big mainsail and a following sea. They had made it – but the cost was great.

Félix’s hands slid to her arms, then up to her shoulders. “You’re shivering,” he said.

She didn’t reply, eyes trained aft on the receding squall.

He pulled her in, pressing his lips to the top of her head, the rise of her brow, the corner of her mouth. It should have been something new, something remarkable, this – but she could think of nothing, feel nothing.

This was the way of life at sea. They had lost men overboard before. But to have it end this way, with nothing left of him—

Félix’s lips left the edge of hers. His features were drawn and pinched, and she knew he was at a loss for words. Then again, so was she.

The rain let up around them, turning first to a drizzle, then to a fine mist. The wind died down soon thereafter, and she could hear the sounds of the others working up on the bow to secure what was left of their forward rig. She had to join them. _Windjammer_ always came first.

“Let’s go,” she said, pulling away from Félix and drawing her rig knife from the pouch at her hip.

Félix followed.

…

Each bilge was the same. Cramped and uncomfortable beneath _Windjammer_ ’s floorboards, it was hard for two grown men to wedge in side-by-side – and that said nothing of how dirty they were. Even where there wasn’t any scum left behind from standing water the oakum would rub off on them, leaving black streaks on their arms and backs as they maneuvered the awkward spaces in _Windjammer_ ’s belly. They had discarded their shirts after their first attempt at pumping out the salon bilge; filth aside, the cool compartment soon became stagnant and sweaty after a few minutes taking turns on the hand-pump.

“I know you recommended trousers, but I think I’d have rather gone in my skins,” Valory remarked as he pumped the forward bilge, knee-deep in filthy water. “I’m not sure these will recover, no matter how many times I have them washed.”

Arden’s lips ticked up at the corner, but his brow remained furrowed in thought, and he made no attempt at a reply.

“You couldn’t have prevented this,” Valory said – another try at getting Arden to speak his mind.

Arden looked up from the bucket he was manning. “I know that.”

“What, then?”

When Arden wiped at the sweat on his brow, his hand left a dark smudge in its wake. “Guilt of another sort,” he said. “I dreamt of you getting pulled out to sea so many times, I—”

“You’re glad it wasn’t me.”

“I’m not very glad at all, right now. But you’re still here, and that’s . . . well. Thank the Gods for it.” He heaved a sigh, leaning his forehead against the hull, heedless of the grime that coated every surface around them. “I know you resent being barred from the deck, but the order wasn’t mine.”

Valory had, in fact, thought the order was Arden’s, though he’d held his tongue in the thick of it to prevent a repeat of their passage to Anaphe with Landon and the _Rhane_. “Though surely no hardship for you to carry out.”

“What, because you’d be safe away from the creature that—” Arden broke off, gesturing towards the scar twisting down Valory’s side. “No. And if that’s what you think, it only goes to show that you’ve no idea how close we were to going under. If Ehrin hadn’t gotten the sail out so we could turn, _Windjammer_ would have foundered with you trapped down below. But then, if we hadn’t sealed the doors we might have foundered anyway. Callum made the right call and I stand by it, but don’t think it was so simple for me up topside.”

Valory let go of the pump, running water trickling to a stop. “I’m being an arse, aren’t I?”

“You think maybe Callum might not have gone overboard if you’d been on deck, and blame yourself in part.”

“I could have—”

“I blame myself, too,” Arden admitted. “I do: I blame myself, and we’re both wrong, and we’re both being ridiculous. The only one responsible for a man going over is the man himself.”

“That seems black and white, by your standards.”

“He made the decision to go forward,” Arden said, voice thick with grief. “He heard the same thing I did, knew the rig was straining and we were in danger of losing our foremast. He was trying to save his ship. Don’t think for a moment I’m questioning his judgement, or – Gods forbid – insinuating that he earned such a fate. But he alone made the decision to go up forward when we were being slammed about, and he did it in a hurry. If I’d been in his position, I’d probably have done the same thing – and I’d have gone over just the same.”

His words echoed in their cramped quarters, water sloshing with _Windjammer_ ’s movements in the space between them. Valory gave another halfhearted pump, but the siphon had broken when he last stopped, and the handle gave nothing but a halfhearted wheeze.

“I can’t abide it, when I lose my men. How can we match up against Zathár when I keep losing—” He shook his head. “Callum was a good Captain. I know it wasn’t his error. I know it wasn’t mine.”

“It’s no comfort,” Arden completed.

Valory regarded him for a long moment. “You’re _Windjammer_ ’s Captain, now.” It was more of a statement than a question, and Arden’s whole frame sagged in response.

“I know.”

That he would be excellent in the role went unspoken and unacknowledged. Valory knew Arden would want to hear no such platitudes. Arden had worked alongside Callum for years. If Valory felt the man’s loss like a blow, Arden would feel it all the more keenly.

Valory began pumping the bilge again, hard at first to get the siphon running. For a long while that was the only sound in the bilge – the gurgle of water draining into the bucket balanced between Arden’s knees, the lap of water as it dropped from their calves down to their ankles, the creak and groan of _Windjammer_ ’s hull as she hurtled towards Elvford on an easterly wind.

“I think I started to take it for granted,” Arden finally said, breaking the relative silence. “Our safe return. _Windjammer_ ’s trade has never been an easy one, and we’ve lost hands before, but – the last one was so long ago. I let myself forget that this is how it is, when you’re on board. A man’s bunk is filled one day, and the next it’s not.”

“I’m sorry for your loss,” Valory murmured, echoing what he’d said to Ehrin.

Arden must have heard the echo as well. “I’ll not belittle Ehrin her grief. It’s deeper than mine and it ought to be, but – well. There’s a reason that she feels like family to me. Callum gave me both work and a home when I deserved neither – when my own father gave me none. He taught me everything I know about life on the water. He was more of a father to me than—” He broke off, staring down into the bucket. “I never told him how grateful I was for everything he did for me. I wouldn’t be half the man I am today if it weren’t for him.”

Valory took one hand off the pump to set it on Arden’s shoulder blade, palm skimming down his back. Arden leaned into it, piece said, and they worked in silence for another few minutes, the trickle of water and the squeaking of the pump blending in with the whoosh of water swirling past _Windjammer_ ’s hull as she sailed on.

“Bucket’s just about full,” Arden warned some minutes later, bringing Valory’s attention back to the task at hand.

Next came a complicated maneuver as Arden hoisted himself out of the awkward space, took the bucket Valory passed up, and held down a hand to pull Valory up into the forward companionway. They had wedged all of their full buckets next to a barrel of salted pork in storage on the starboard side, which they recovered together before trudging up to the deck to empty the bilge water overboard and repeat the whole process again.

Arden paused as soon as his head was up on deck, stopping Valory behind him on the top step of the companionway. The wind wasn’t blowing at gale force – not nearly the equal of what the squall had done – but the eerie doldrums had filled in with a brisk breeze that pushed them towards their destination.

Valory wedged himself up into the companionway entrance next to Arden, whose neck was craned to watch the wind’s path in and around their mainsail. Valory supposed he was using his talent, but without laying hands on him it was impossible to tell.

“I wish there was something more I could have done, when the squall hit,” Arden said, not taking his eyes off the wind. “I could feel what the wind was doing. It was overwhelming.”

His words confirmed what Valory had suspected, at least, though he didn’t know what to say in response.

“I’m not strong enough to match up to something like that,” Arden continued. “It’d be like a candle flame standing up to a gale. But I wonder . . .” he turned to Valory. “When you amplify my talent, I have strength far beyond my own. I use both of our talents put together – multiplied, even.”

“But you can’t control it. That’s the rub, isn’t it?”

Arden pressed his lips together. “I suppose so,” he said, though Valory got the distinct impression he was sitting on more words that wouldn’t come.

“No use dealing in what-ifs.”

Arden let out a long sigh, swinging his legs over the weatherboards to stand on deck, a bucket hanging from each hand. “True enough. I have to be the Captain that _Windjammer_ needs – if only for a short while.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I feel guilty to be taking you away from her.”

“Don’t be.” Arden dumped his buckets overboard, grey bilge water sloshing into their wake, before setting them down onto the deck. “I’m where I ought to be. I only—” he shook his head.

“I know,” Valory murmured, stopping beside him. “I’d stay if I could, too.”

Arden dropped his head into his hands, eyes screwed shut.

Valory’s chest ached for him. He dumped his own buckets out, but Arden made no sign of moving from where he stood with elbows rested upon the cap rail. He would shoulder all of Arden’s grief if he could – but that wasn’t his enchantment.

“Tell me what to do,” he said, arm slipping around Arden’s waist. “What can I do?”

Arden lifted his head at that, a sad smile doing nothing to smooth the crease in his brow. He turned in their half-embrace, reaching a hand around the back of Valory’s neck to bring their foreheads together. They rested like that for a moment, sharing breath.

“Come on,” he murmured, “let’s finish these bilges.”

“That’s not the kind of help I meant.”

Arden shook his head, pulling away and retrieving his buckets. “You said it yourself: I’m _Windjammer_ ’s Captain now. I’ve got plenty of work to do.” He met Valory’s eyes over his shoulder. “Don’t sell this short. Keeping Callum’s girl afloat and repairing her as best we can before we make landfall means more than you know.”

That much, Valory understood. Arden would do his damndest to live up to the title Callum had passed to him – for however short a time he held it.

He grabbed his buckets and followed his Steward back down the companionway.

…

It was a kind thing, she knew, that Lars had herded her out of the galley and insisted that he could give her an easy evening. She had been too surprised – and too overwhelmed – to argue with him. There was no sense having a go at him for showing her such kindness. What none of the lads realized was that sending her back down to her bunk for ‘rest’, or whatever they had called it, took work out of her hands and left her with nothing else to occupy them.

In hard times Ehrin was always the first in the galley – not just because she wanted to do something nice for the lads, but because beating at a batter or measuring out the ingredients for a stew busied her body and blanked her mind. Her work in the galley was as much a balm to her as it was a benefit to them. Without it she drifted throughout the cabin compartments, aimless, until she wound up in her father’s empty cabin where she collapsed down on his empty bed and cried herself to sleep.

She woke to the creak of footsteps in the doorway. The light was dim – late afternoon – and when she rolled she saw Arden hovering in the doorway. Ehrin was no Empath, but she could see the hole in her heart mirrored in the slope of his shoulders and held out her hand to him.

He didn’t need a second invitation. He made it through her father’s small cabin in a few steps, collapsing onto the bunk beside her.

“Were you on deck?” she asked, voice hoarse. Her head ached. Her eyes were sore. Her nose was stuffy from crying. She must have looked a fright – but Arden had her matched.

“Pumped out the bilges with Val.”

“Were they that flooded?” she asked, alarm rousing her.

“They were fine, Ehrin – lie back down.” He rolled to his side to face her. “There was some water, but not too much. Val and I had to dump buckets of seawater on one another after – we were filthy.”

“You look a little blue in the lips.”

“The water isn’t exactly warm in these parts.”

That got her thinking of her Da again, and as if on cue she felt her eyes starting to water. She buried her face in the pillow, willing her tears not to turn to sobs. Arden made no attempt at platitudes but one of his hands came up to rub at her back.

“So much loss,” he whispered, sounding close to tears himself. “So much we’ve already endured for the sake of this creature’s quest for vengeance, for Dramor’s avarice, for the mistakes of our forefathers. When will it end?”

He sat with her while she cried, rubbing circles into her back, until the water rushing by their port lights grew dark with the setting of the sun. The changing of the watch came through and lit the lanterns in the hall, casting a warm glow on the other side of the doorway. Lars’ concoction – whatever it was – was simmering on the stove, making the whole compartment smell like some kind of stewed meat. Ehrin had no appetite, but she’d eat anyway. Her body needed it.

She listened to Lars’ purposeful rustling in the galley, the tread of the watch above their heads, the rush of water against _Windjammer_ ’s hull until sleep nearly claimed her again. She was drifting on the edge of dreamscapes when Arden spoke, pulling her back to wakefulness.

“You know I have to leave _Windjammer_ when we reach Elvford.”

She rolled onto her back, staring at the dark wood of the cabin’s ceiling, tracing its grain with her eyes. This was what she had most feared: to be both without a Captain and without her father. “What am I going to do?” she asked.

Arden patted the bedding between them, finding her hand and twining her fingers with his. “You have enough crew with Theo aboard. You won’t need to take on a Sarian sailor from Elvford, at least.”

“That was the last thing I was thinking about.”

He turned to regard her, and for a moment she thought he was going to suggest the absurd, but he seemed to reconsider it at the last moment. “You trust Félix,” he said, both question and statement.

It was the right decision. Félix had proven his loyalty to them time and again. His ability as a Captain was beyond question. She only hoped that her father would have understood, that he would have agreed. “Yeh,” she said.

Arden turned back to watch the ceiling once more, but he didn’t let go of her hand. They sat in silence, alone together, waiting for the dinner bell to ring.

…

Although the fog parted by mid-afternoon the skies remained grey, rain falling at intervals to keep each watch uncomfortable and damp beneath their oilskins. The lads had covered her deck duties as well, and though she wasn’t out in the wet weather with the rest of them, that didn’t stop the damp chill from seeping into her bones. She managed to make it until Lars had cleaned up their evening meal before taking up her place in the galley – seeking out both the heat of a lit stove and the warmth she felt whenever she was able to put a smile on one of the lads’ faces with a cup of Kilcoranian cocoa.

Ehrin sorely needed to see some smiles, whether or not they insisted she had earned her rest. She couldn’t abide feeling as though she wasn’t pulling her weight. They wanted to help her through her grief, perhaps, but she thought that was hardly fair to them. Her Da had been a father of sorts to all of them, after all.

It was hot in the galley when she arrived, stove still lit. At first she thought that Lars had forgotten to put the damper down. It wasn’t until she heard Arden’s voice coming from the backside of the salon that she figured he must have lit it for her. He was the only one who would ever dare touch her cookware without her say-so; he always got out of a browbeating by arguing that he never _touched_ the stove when he lit it, Illen-blessed as he was. Not that a browbeating would have been forthcoming on this occasion – Ehrin knew Arden’s small kindnesses well after so many years, just as he knew that she would eventually make for the galley to nurse her wounds.

Arden had, indeed, left most of the ingredients for her cocoa in the dip of the washbasin. What might seem like an imposition to others was a boon to her – an excuse to keep her hands busy. It was an impulse she knew he understood. She had watched him closely after the Battle of Anaphe, after all; the paint on _Windjammer_ ’s hatches had never looked so fine.

Ehrin spent a few minutes organizing her ingredients and grinding the spices she needed for her cocoa. Cooler weather meant that milk kept for longer, and she was pleased to see that her last jug had yet to spoil. She was, as always, meticulous in her preparation of Bightton’s traditional drink – but busy hands could only keep her mind occupied for so long, and she found her thoughts sliding inexorably back to all that had come to pass that morning.

Tears blurring her vision, she set her ingredients to heat on the stovetop, whisking the spices in at intervals. She knew her father wouldn’t want her to grieve for him. This was the life they had both chosen, and given all the risk they had taken over the years, it was a miracle he had lived as long as he had. Sailors didn’t much talk about it when a bunk was full one day and empty the next, but men were often lost to the ocean’s fury, and traveling to the north was synonymous with heartache for the men who plied those waters.

That didn’t make it any easier.

Ehrin was adding another splash of milk to her brew when she heard the clomp of booted feet coming down the companionway. She would know Félix’s gait anywhere, and stiffened as he approached the galley. She could still feel the phantom press of his lips against the corner of hers. It was no filial gesture in Oceana, that – nor in Belen. She knew not what to make of it.

Félix appeared in the doorway, dark hair spilling damp over his forehead, growing shaggy and unkempt after months without a trim. He had changed into a dry shirt, simple linen that a common Belenese sailor might wear – loose beneath the arms with an angular collar. Ehrin knew she was staring and felt her face heat.

“You are supposed to rest,” he said, ducking beneath the divider that barred the doorway to stand beside her.

“Would you be resting, if you were in my place?”

“No.”

She beat harder at her cocoa. “Then don’t expect me to put up my heels and watch you lot do all the hard work, yeh?”

“ _I’ve always been in the habit of giving my men time after a loss, if the situation permitted_.”

“Not saying I don’t appreciate the thought, but I’ll go mad with it if all I’m meant to do is stare at the walls and think about how I ought to have gotten that sheet out sooner.”

“ _Do not blame yourself_.”

The command hung sharp between them, fading into a pregnant silence. Ehrin set the cocoa to simmering, dropping her whisk back in the washbasin and leaning back until the basin’s metal lip began to dig into her back.

“Da always used to joke about going to meet Illen in his bunk as an old grandda with little mast-monkeys running about on his ship.” She stared at her pot of cocoa as though she could make it boil through sheer force of will. “We both knew it wouldn’t come to pass. I think this might have been his next best choice – in the middle of something so powerful. Trying to save his ship.”

“It was no ordinary storm,” Félix said, and Ehrin knew he understood.

It was hard for her to say one of those things that landsmen always did, something like ‘he didn’t die for nothing’, because what would have changed if he had lived? He’d been going up forward, the lads said, and then that was it – his number was up, and the sea didn’t care one bit about it. But he could have gone over a hundred times before that, in any ordinary old storm.

Ehrin knew of few vessels that had seen a white squall and sailed on to tell the tale. At least it was no ordinary day. Her Da had earned that, at least.

“He made the right call for his ship,” she said.

“We did not have a good decision open to us, but he still found the better one. It is because of his choice that luck found us.”

Ehrin touched her brow. “Ranael was watching over us.”

“If you say.”

Ehrin bit her lip. She had to believe – _had to_ – that Ranael’s watchful eye still remained on them. That he still cared about the fate of the men who plied their trade in his domain. To have lost her Da, to know what she did of the sea and its perils and to think that Ranael, too, had turned his back on them – it would be too much for her. She couldn’t fathom how Félix could do it.

Félix watched in silence as she added the last of the milk and spices to her pot, handing her each ingredient in a row before she reached for it. He hovered behind her as she stirred, shifting restlessly from foot to foot out of time with _Windjammer_ ’s sway. She waited until the last of her spices were folded in before turning to face him.

“Yeh?”

Félix’s eyes slid sideways, leaving hers to rest instead upon the stovetop. “ _When the squall struck us, it was chaos. You dove to spill the wind from our mainsail, and I thought you were reaching for my hand. I thought I had failed to catch you, and that we had lost you overboard_.”

“I saw your hand, but I made my decision. I was the only one close enough to reach the sheet – everything else happened so fast.”

Félix’s throat bobbed with a hard swallow. “That is because you were acting. For me all was slow and yet there was nothing I could do.”

“I knew the risk. Didn’t feel like I had much of a choice.”

He turned away from the stove to face her. “This was not a criticism,” he said, hand coming up to rest against her cheek. “You are the reason _Windjammer_ still floats. But to see you disappear into the water as you did—” He broke off, bending to rest his forehead against hers, close enough that she could feel his breath against her salt-chapped lips. “It made me understand.”

“Understand what?”

He kissed her, mouth warm and nose cold, one long arm tight around her waist. He cradled her close as he had after the squall, only this time she understood that this was as much a comfort to him as it was for her; his kiss was as fervent as it was tender, the sort she might have expected from a man who had felt the desperate grief of seeing the one he cared for slip beneath the waves.

She clung to him until they parted, Félix drawing a quick breath before leaning forward to kiss her once more. She turned then, his kiss landing upon her cheekbone as she pulled herself from his embrace. He stiffened, hands jerking from her skin.

“Don’t,” she said, turning back towards the stove, voice cracking. “Don’t do this, not now, unless you really mean it, because I—”

He stepped up behind her once more, arms wrapping back around her waist to hold her close. “ _I can’t lose you, my little warrior_ ,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, to her hairline, to her temple. “ _Do you understand? I can’t_.”

She let out a great, juddering breath. “ _I understand_ ,” she whispered.

“ _Good_.” He relaxed against her, molded against her back, chin resting atop her shoulder. “ _Good_.”

Félix wasn’t the sort of man who would speak such words lightly, she knew, but it was hard for her to feel any sort of excitement or happiness – hard indeed to do aught but question and doubt. It was an odd thing, she mused, that something she had wanted so badly could be so terrifying. She had never thought a man like Félix could look at her as though the moon rose with her blessing. It was overwhelming, but more than that, she couldn’t help but fear that as soon as she reached for it – and reached for him – all the promises made by word and deed over so many long months would turn to dust, running through her fingers the right alongside all that had crumbled since they had left Halen’s waters.

On the stovetop before them her cocoa came to a boil. He reached up to give the pot a stir before returning his arm to its spot around her waist. She’d never have thought they’d be standing here like this, Félix tending the pots in her stead, yet here they were. She let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, and felt his arms tighten around her in response.

She placed her hands over his, and held on tight.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, massive edits as of 12/1/16. If you started reading before then, back up to chapter 13 or the rest won't make any sense!
> 
> ...
> 
> I also wanted to extend my thanks to everyone who has left comments and constructive criticism. Your feedback has made me grow infinitely as a writer since I began this story almost four years (!) ago now.
> 
> (One could say that I've learned how to plan, plot, and write novels since I started tapping out the first words of A Wicked Whisper in late 2012. Reading back, I've grown out of a *lot* of bad habits since then -- but the first book still needs to be edited for headhopping and some continuity / writing quality issues. There are also a few structural edits I want to make to the early chapters ... it can be daunting at times, but it's also a measure of how far I've come that I can even *see* those structural problems now, so THANK YOU to all of those commenters who've taught me so much.)
> 
> Obviously my life situation has changed over the past four years, too. I live shipboard almost full time now, and although internet access is difficult to come by, it's not the real problem: the truth is, my job is so full-on and time consuming that I rarely have the time or the energy to write.
> 
> I know at this point it must seem like I'm repeating myself, but I'm deadly serious about this: this story has been a part of my life for so long that I'm completely dedicated to finishing it. It may take a while, but I'll keep plodding away as time goes by. (I have a "notes" document on my hard drive for the next and final book that is already 13k words of just bullet points, so.)
> 
> This is the final chapter of A Hot and Copper Sky (for real, this time). Stay tuned for the first chapter of At One Stride Comes the Dark, hopefully coming your way sometime before 2017.

_The Season of Heat  
Fanád the 6; 2422_

“Imran.”

Imran was halfway on his feet before his sleep-fogged mind registered where he was. He stumbled with _Windjammer_ ’s sway, tripping over Gabriel’s hammock before finding his balance, hand coming to rest over the concealed hunting knife at his hip.

“You’ve got twenty-five to watch, mate,” Jonah said, performing a series of facial gymnastics in an attempt to restrain laughter. Imran assumed it was at his expense.

“It rains?” he asked, well aware of how peevish he sounded.

“Nah, mate – clear skies and brisk winds. Theo thinks the sea state’ll calm as we go now that we’re past the shoals.”

“I will see you on deck.”

Jonah gave a mock-salute before heading back to the companionway. As he disappeared through the deck hatch, Imran sank back down onto his bunk. He supposed it was a small favor that he was only a little queasy – so many endless days of rough weather had left him feeling wrung out both in mind and in body. He was ready to be back on land again, where he never woke up groggy and even a light-footed sailor like Jonah couldn’t get the drop on him.

He rubbed at his eyes, trying to rouse himself to wakefulness. This was his hardest watch – three to six bells – and if he went up on deck wooly-headed, he’d run the risk of dozing off on bow watch. Such lack of vigilance would shame him.

He wove and staggered around the cabin with the motion of the ship as he went through his ‘morning’ routine, dressing in silence so as not to wake Little, whose thunderous snores Imran had long since learned to ignore.

It took some hustle on his part to get up to the quarterdeck ten minutes to the hour. Valory and Arden had both beaten him to the helm where Félix was delivering their briefing without having waited for Imran to join them. It made Imran bristle to be so overlooked by the Madestan even though he knew no slight was intended; he had spent most of his time aboard hunched over the rail until they passed the shoals, and couldn’t blame the others for considering him no more than an ancillary part of Lord Arden’s watch.

“We did not see the need to alert you,” Félix was saying. He didn’t turn to acknowledge that Imran had joined them at the helm. “The shift in wind was favorable. We adjusted the main. She balances well, like this – we have been making almost eight knots.”

Arden nodded before turning Imran’s way. “Are you well enough for bow watch?”

Imran stiffened. “I will go where you need me.”

“Alright, then. Félix, your watch is relieved.”

Ehrin left the quarterdeck straight away, slipping off towards midships without a word. Félix stayed on deck chatting something about the trim of the sails for another few minutes – words that were meaningless to Imran even when he was awake enough for his mind to be sharp. He let his thoughts wander until Arden finally stepped up to the helm, at which point he went forward to switch out with Jonah on the bow.

The moon was out and full that night, casting _Windjammer_ ’s deck in a silver glow – bright enough that Imran could perch next to the remains of the foremast and see for miles in all directions. He relieved Jonah with a quiet word in the man’s direction, and found himself grateful for the silence that followed. The crew all grieved, still, and Imran had no facility with words of comfort.

Imran hadn’t been on deck for the violent gale that nearly sent _Windjammer_ to the locker, but he had heard of what came to pass afterward. He wasn’t sure what to make of any of it – the gale or otherwise. It was a relief that the creature no longer followed them; Theo had gotten his first snatch of sleep down below in days, and his absence from the quarterdeck released the knot that had sat between Imran’s shoulder blades since he first spotted the thing on the water’s surface. Yet peace of mind had carried a tremendous price – one that Imran hadn’t been prepared to pay.

Callum had been a man with _true-honor_ : a leader of men by all rights, and one of the few of Ranael’s children who had always been kind to him.

The moonlight was bright enough that he could see Ehrin leaning out of the companionway, face tipped upwards towards the breeze. It struck Imran as an odd place for her to stand until Félix joined her and her reasons for loitering became clear. Imran watched as Félix gathered her into his arms, kissing her brow before bending to speak quiet words in her ear.

Imran shook his head. Miss Ehrin’s choices were no business of his. Indeed, he had no doubt that she could handle herself without the intervention of Captain or crew. He only wondered how a Kilcoranian could see anything of worth in a Westerner after all that had come to pass at Illen’s Arm. Even though the battle seemed like it had taken place ages ago and new tragedy was still fresh in their minds, Imran wasn’t sure he could be so big a man where Félix was concerned.

The two of them stood together for some time before vacating the midships companionway, leaving Imran alone up on the main deck. He stood and paced the width of _Windjammer_ ’s beam a handful of times, chasing away the desire to doze off with each step. It was a calm night, cool and inviting, and though land wasn’t yet in sight, Imran scented the sort of freshness on the offshore breeze that he associated with rolling pastures and green fields. On nights like this one, it was easy to forget the white-capped fury of the passage – and even easier to fall asleep at his post.

Imran trod another loping circle around the forward housetop, stopping back at his place beside the foremast and shaking out each of his limbs to get the blood flowing through them. As he wrung out his hands, he snuck a surreptitious glance aft. He had once been one of the sultan’s prized fighters – men who could stand vigilant watch, still and silent, for hours at a time. If Valory noticed his undignified fidgeting, he’d never hear the end of it.

At the helm, Valory and Arden remained unaware of Imran’s struggle for vigilance. Arden held the ship’s course steady through the water, Valory close beside him. Though Imran was meant to keep his focus facing forward, he couldn’t help but sneak occasional glances back in their direction – a habit he had developed since they left Armathia. The past months had been difficult, and though Arden had been a part of their cohort for a mere fraction of the time Imran had served at Valory’s side, Imran had found it unnatural when they were parted in Anaphe by duty and circumstance. It was good to see them standing side-by-side once more – to see some of the natural order of things restored.

“The sea-state is much improved, tonight.”

If Imran had known that Lord Hammond would join him on the forward housetop, he’d have gone all the way up to the bowsprit to stand watch instead.

“Yes,” Imran replied as Hammond settled down next to him with a steaming mug of ginger tea. Hammond passed a second mug his way. Imran schooled his features to avoid revealing the suspicion that rose up at the man’s small kindness. Why would a nobleman bring him tea unless he had ulterior motives? “You are up late, sir.”

“I have found sleep difficult to come by, these past days,” Hammond murmured, sipping at his brew. “The Lord Steward was kind enough to let me browse his volumes. I finally dozed while paging through an annotated text on Anaphean folklore. When he and the Regent woke for watch, he was kind enough to light the stove for me. Remarkable talent, he has.”

“Hm.”

Imran’s lukewarm response had Hammond regarding him with narrowed eyes. “You wouldn’t say so?”

He tapped at the idol of Arrar that hung over his breastbone. “I am no judge of such things.”

The explanation mollified Hammond somewhat. “He put a second cup on for you.”

“I know his kindness well.”

Hammond relaxed onto the housetop. “Like his brother, he is, or so I’m given to understand – thinking first of the men who serve him.”

“It is his way.”

“You’ve traveled with him long?”

“Lord Arden has been with us since Ranael’s Day, minus the time he spent in the West.”

“Ah, yes – come to think of it I had heard your story. You were made a man of Oceana by our King after the Battle of Elona, were you not?”

Imran had never enjoyed diplomacy despite having once been an emissary himself. When he heard tell of the friction between Hammond and Félix, he decided to aid Valory’s cause by staying out of Hammond’s way until he had little other choice. This was precisely why: he knew that Hammond’s words were baited, but just as he always seemed to put his foot in it when he was in the tavern, he suspected he wouldn’t be able to talk himself out of whatever verbal trap the man had laid for him. That’s not to say he’d let himself be caught in it, however.

“Yes.”

Let Hammond try to read into _that_.

“You’ve served beside the Regent for many years – as his First, or so I was given to understand, before Lord Arden was made his Steward.”

“My position has not changed.”

Hammond cast a purposeful glance back towards the helm where Valory and Arden were deep in conversation. They both had seats up on the gearbox, Arden on the helm and Valory close beside him – very close, in Imran’s opinion – and though it was a sight to which he was accustomed, following Hammond’s pointed glance had him seeing them through new eyes. He wondered what Hammond saw, when he looked upon the Regent and his Steward sitting so close they were pressed together from shoulder to hip to knee.

Imran frowned. They were growing transparent, and Hammond was an observant man. Imran couldn’t imagine that Hammond would find their regard for one another anything but base and vile; they would have to take more care.

“The Regent is very attentive to his Steward’s grief,” Hammond remarked, taking another sip from his tea.

“Lord Arden sailed aboard _Windjammer_ for many years. It is a blow to lose one’s Captain.”

“Yet the Regent is his only true liege, is he not?”

Imran rolled his shoulders. He didn’t like where Hammond’s questions were going. “Lord Arden was loyal to _Windjammer_ ’s Captain. That did not change when he took the oath,” he said. “It does not make less of his oath, either.”

“That I do not doubt. I only wonder at how tolerant the Regent is with the men he commands.”

Imran remained silent. He hadn’t the slightest idea what point Hammond was driving at.

Hammond let a few beats of silence pass before pressing on. “Do you call the Regent by his given name, Lieutenant?”

“His given name?” Imran suspected he had done a poor job of hiding his incredulity, for Hammond’s amusement at his reaction was plain in the satisfied uptick of his lips.

“I ask because I have rarely heard Lord Arden use his title.”

Hammond had spent so little time with Little and Gabe that he wouldn’t have heard “Val” used until Arden referred to Valory as such. It was an odd bone to pick, and Imran felt his hand was somewhat forced in response. “It is not my place to do so,” he finally said. It was a bald-faced lie; one he’d have to take care not to be caught in.

“Just as well, Lieutenant. The Regent is an extension of the King, and none but the King can be his equal. To act otherwise is presumptuous: disrespectful to the crown.”

Imran had no response. He wanted to say ‘ _they are friends_ ’, because though it wasn’t by any measure all they were to one another, it was true nonetheless. He had the feeling that this was something Hammond would neither understand nor appreciate: that a man in Valory’s position might find bosom friendship in a man of lesser rank. Imran thought it a strange outlook to have. He came from a world where one’s _only_ friends were one’s brothers-in-arms; Hammond came instead from the council chamber where names and titles meant everything, and the defense one gave one’s brother upon the battlefield did not.

“Lieutenant?” Hammond prompted.

“I have heard the men of the Sarian court sit at a round table, no matter their rank,” he said.

Hammond made a face into the dregs of his tea. “And are we to be as they are? Well, then the upstarts in Carlin’s court will appreciate the liberties the Regent allows. Perhaps that’s why the King sent his brother and Lord Arden to Saria after all.”

Imran grit his teeth. If Hammond sought agreement from him, he had another thing coming. “I am a solider, sir. These are not words to break with me.”

“Ah.” Hammond stood. “I trust, Lieutenant, that you know I think only of Oceana’s best interests.”

“I am a loyal man of Oceana, sir. I do not suspect your motives.” Another lie. “But I know little of the Oceanic court. I cannot tell you much else. If you have concerns, you must break words with the Regent.”

His rebuttal set Hammond on edge; he could smell the man’s nerves. He supposed Hammond knew that he would repeat the conversation to Valory at the first opportunity, and wondered what had possessed the man to make such remarks in the first place. Seeking information, perhaps? Gauging the loyalty of a Dramorian-born man?

“I think I’ll leave you to your watch, Lieutenant. Good evening.”

Imran inclined his head. “Sir.”

Hammond disappeared below decks, leaving Imran in blessed silence one more. He settled back into his seat, fingertips tapping idly upon the housetop next to him. It was unbecoming to fidget, he knew, and after a few minutes be busied his hands by taking out his pipe and herb-pouch. The smell of dried _thorned-yellow-flower_ had always soothed him, and though it was always a pain to light a match shipboard, he found the meditative calm his pipe brought him to be well worth the effort.

He took a long puff from his pipe, blowing a hazy ring that disappeared wisp-like into the night. Somewhere out there Saria lay – close enough to smell, but not yet near enough to see. They were near enough that he had to stay alert. He could very well be the first to spot the coastline.

Imran took another puff from his pipe, staring out into the dark.

.

The horizon was just growing light when Niko relieved Imran from bow watch.

Imran made no show of hesitation, instead leaving the deck at once for his hammock where he lay in silence, staring up at the ceiling as it rocked back and forth above his head. Valory was a stubborn man, and although Imran suspected it was hypocritical of him to take umbrage to it, his commander’s pigheadedness never fail to set his teeth on edge.

At first he had been glad when, partway through their watch, Valory had come up to keep him company up at the bow. It had been their custom before the passage from Halen had dispensed with anything approaching the ordinary. He had a puff off Imran’s pipe as they discussed the upcoming overland journey to Oldred, and Imran had felt himself ease further at this return to old habits—

Until the subject of Hammond came up.

Valory had never appreciated being told to take care, and that morning was no exception. His failure to heed warning always served to annoy Imran, and coupled with his blithe dismissal of the possibility that Hammond had any ulterior motives – ‘ _he’s meddling. Think nothing of it’_ only frustrated Imran further. Hammond was a valuable asset and respected within the Sarian court but he was still a politician, and Imran couldn’t fathom how Valory could so blithely dismiss the threat he could pose.

Dismiss the threat – and then put such time and effort into ensuring that the man’s needs were met.

Valory had decided to arrange for a coach to take them to Oldred out of fear that Hammond would be unable to make the trip in the saddle. Imran would rather attempt to tame and harness a desert drake than plod along in a coach like some gouty old fop, but his protests had fallen on deaf ears. Leaving Hammond in Elvford would create diplomatic friction they couldn’t afford.

Imran rolled to his feet, dismissing sleep as a possibility. It was already beginning to grow too light out – and he too annoyed – to ignore the first signs of Arrar’s progress across the sky. He decided to use the time to sort out his pack instead, hoping the task would pull his mind from that morning’s frustrations.

It took him some time to locate his belongings; though as a rule the Regent’s men traveled light, the storm had still managed to cover the better part of the cabin floor in their things. He located his pack on the leeward side of the room where it slid during the squall. Beneath it sat a painted cowrie shell, miraculously intact. He picked up the shell, turning it over in his hands, allowing himself the luxury of thinking – though he wasn’t a sentimental man – about the hand that had painted the swirling blue waves that crossed its back.

“Reckon we’ll see Armathia again?”

Imran shoved the shell into the side pouch of his pack even though he knew he’d already been caught admiring it. Little lay awake in his hammock, swinging from side-to-side, features just visible in the early morning light.

“It is our destination.”

Little gave a snort, rolling over to face the wall. “Yeh, and one can only hope it doesn’t look like Anaphe did when we last left it.”

 _They will quick-march, scores and scores,  
and follow their master to the stone-city’s doors_ —

Imran shook his head hard, trying to clear the Book’s words from his mind. “Then we will make haste,” he said. Little gave another huff, but said nothing in reply.

Imran busied his hands once more, fastening the buckles on his pack before pacing the cabin in search of anything he might have forgotten. It was all he could do to take his mind off of the passages that jumped into his mind unbidden – passages that had haunted him for months. It was a burden that would remain his alone. The Oceanic, for all they feared the demon, couldn’t feel the full force of all the Book described; the Book was written in his mother tongue alone, and were thus imbued with a dark horror that no translation could hope to capture.

Imran’s thoughts turned to Obed, who had spent the better part of his life speaking the rites in Old Dramorian, preaching from the Book that had terrified Imran since childhood. Did Obed still say his prayers in solitude, or were his sermons now sought by the masses? Did he sweep the stones of Arrynmathár’s temples each morning like a lowly acolyte, or had power and position turned him into something else entirely, as it had for Alvar?

Imran turned on his heel. He didn’t want to dwell on these thoughts.

He took the companionway two steps at a time until his head emerged into the early morning light. Dawn had yet to break. The sea and sky blended together at the horizon, indigo-dyed like the woven rugs in his father’s rooms.

Everything reminded him of his home and brothers these days. Memories had owned his mind ever since he saw Alvar upon the back of an ancient desert beast, bearing their father’s standard with an army of the damned upon his heels.

He shut his eyes. Thoughts of them -- of their childhood together – filled him with traitorous warmth, and he was hard-pressed to wish ill upon them, no matter what choices they had made since his defection. They were not evil men. He knew it in his bones.

It made their choices all the harder to reconcile.

“Land ho!”

Niko’s cry reached him in the forward companionway. Little was out of his hammock in a blink, big form hustling out the doorway and up the ladder to beat Imran onto the deck. From back aft came the thunderous trod of feet stampeding up to the deck – half the crew, at least – no doubt all jockeying to catch their first glimpse of Elvford’s coastline.

He shut his eyes, sinking down to sit on the top step of the ladder. His fingers closed around the wooden idol that hung over his breastbone. Since leaving Halen, he had thought on more than one occasion that they were destined to meet a watery grave in the Sarian channel. He could scarcely believe they made it.

“ _Arrar be praised. By your holy-gaze we were spared_ ,” he whispered.

Imran paid no mind to the rush of steps passing the forward deckhouse, to the euphoric shouts of those who made it to the bow to confirm Niko’s cry. He stood only once his prayers were through, following Little’s path forward with his eyes until they rested on the small crowd of crew gathered beside the forestay.

The brisk breeze bit at his cheeks. He squinted against the hazy predawn light, over Niko and Gabe’s shoulders, to the horizon. Off in the distance, he could just make out the faintest smudge of green.

To Saria they would go.

…

Félix lay awake in what had once been Callum’s cabin, fully dressed, watching the shadows lift as night turned to day. It was a rare morning that he didn’t wake before sunrise; when he was Captain of the _Madesta_ he would be out of bed by the time the sun rose over the horizon, taking sights and surveying the state of his vessel and crew. It was a habit that had carried over to his time on _Windjammer_ , though he no longer hurried to greet the sun on the quarterdeck.

He was in no hurry this morning, either. Beside him Ehrin lay curled around a pillow, the curve of her back tucked into his side, deep enough in sleep that Niko’s cry failed to wake her when land first appeared in the distance. In spite of his curiosity Félix remained beside her. They didn’t need him on deck just yet, not as he was needed here.

Félix listened with half an ear to the telltale rustling of Lord Arden and the Regent from the back of the salon. They stopped in the galley for a mug of coffee, standing close enough to touch as they waited for the water to boil. Snippets of their quiet early-morning conversation reached his ears, though he couldn’t make out any words.

He watched them for a time, keeping an ear on the ebb and flow of their chatter in an effort to determine whether or not Arden had any order for him, or if he’d be able to secure another few hours of sleep before all hands were needed on deck. He got the impression that they spoke of personal matters rather than professional ones, however – a suspicion that was only confirmed when something the Regent said made Arden crack the first smile Félix had seen him wear in days. Arden caught the Regent around the waist, pulling him in and—

Félix shut his eyes. Such displays of affection discomfited him, though it was no fault of theirs it was so. They had no cause to think Callum’s cabin had occupants, and he had no business watching them.

The kettle boiled, its whistle followed by more quiet conversation, more rustling around in the larder. That Ehrin slept through it was a testament to her exhaustion – exhaustion that Félix felt, as well. Rather than rousing himself he kept his eyes shut and allowed his mind to wander. They would call him up to the deck when his presence was required. Until then he could rest.

.

Félix was roused from dreams of repairing _Windjammer_ ’s standing rig by the hollow sound of knuckles rapping against wood. He was surprised to see how bright it was; he must have slept for several more hours. Ehrin still hadn’t woken; her soft, even breaths tickled across his collarbone. She had rolled to tuck into his shoulder and he, in his sleep, had wrapped an arm around her waist to hold her close.

“You’re wanted up on deck,” Niko said, shuffling around in the doorway.

“The Captain called?” he asked.

Niko’s jaw worked without sound for a moment, brow pinched. “Yeh, I s’pose so.”

“Tell him I’ll be up in a moment.” Félix sat up. “Did he want all hands?”

Niko hesitated, hovering just outside the cabin. “He said to let Miss Ehrin sleep.”

“Good.” Félix swung his legs over the side of the bunk.

“Short-hair—” Niko broke off mid-sentence, giving a jerky nod in Ehrin’s direction. “She’s some of the only family I’ve got left, you hear?” He stood firm as Félix approached, lifting his chin to meet Félix’s eyes.

“Do you question my loyalty, even now?” Félix closed in on him. At Niko’s shrug, he pressed on. “You imply that I will do harm to her? Your words are dishonorable. I gave my career for an alliance with Oceana. I have been excommunicated for standing in Lord Arden’s name in front of Madesta’s tribal council. My loyalty to this crew was so obvious to them that my own brother could not stop the price from being put on my head. Now we go to war, and my people will fight on the other side.” He turned away, shaking his head. “Without _Windjammer_ I, too, would stand alone – and still you think me the kind of man who would do her harm.”

“I don’t think you heard what I said, mate.”

Félix turned back, regarding Niko through narrowed eyes. “Explain.”

“You have a sister, short-hair?”

“No.”

Niko gave a loose shrug. “Imagine you do. A tough little thing, but a sister all the same, and one you’d give your right arm to spare from harm, if you get my meaning. Now some lad starts nosing around and takes a shine to her. You have your differences but he’s a good bloke all in all, not that you’d ever tell him as much to his face. Still, good bloke or no, that’s your sister. Doesn’t matter how much you like the lad, you’ve got to let him know that a broken heart means a broken head. S’what a brother does, yeh?”

“Hm.”

“You get my meaning?”

Félix arched a brow. “I suggest you purchase a stepping stool, or perhaps a ladder.”

“What now?”

“If I am to take this threat of breaking heads as more than a jest, you will need a means to reach my head – will you not, Midget?”

Niko’s jaw worked soundlessly for a second before his mind caught up with him. Cursing a blue streak, he turned away from the cabin. “Gods, I don’t know what she sees in you. Just get your arse on deck, for Fángon’s sake.”

He stormed out in a huff, one Félix had seen enough times to know it was affected.

Félix looked after him for a moment before turning to finish gathering his things – boots, vest, coat. He strapped on his belt last, arranging it low around his waist before moving back to the side of the bed where he sat to look upon Ehrin’s sleeping form. Even in dreams her cares were etched into her brow. He reached forward to brush the hair from her face, a gentle gesture that echoed the tenderness that welled up within him at the sight of her. He’d shield her from those cares if he could. He’d shoulder her fears and see the soft smile of happy dreams replace the terse line of her pinched frown.

Of all he had expected when he ran for _Windjammer_ ’s dock slip late that night in Zaránd, it wasn’t this: these tender feelings, this abiding loyalty, the unquestionable devotion to this vessel and her crew.

Félix bent to place a kiss upon her brow before turning away towards the deck.

They would make him Captain after Arden’s departure – he knew it without needing to be told. He would become the Captain of an Oceanic mercenary ship. He couldn’t quite fathom how the past seasons had brought him here – how he went from Commodore of the Belenese navy to fighting, by law and letter of marque, for the Oceanic crown. He didn’t think he had changed so much at heart, but yet he didn’t recognize himself at times, this new man of Madesta with loyalties he never before could have imagined. After all, the words he spoke to the Ithakan were no lie: it didn’t matter that he would soon face his countrymen upon the field of battle. He made his choice, had made it ages ago. He would fight to protect _Windjammer_ and her crew with everything he had.

The morning sunlight was bright enough to set him to squinting. A fair wind bore them westward. Though she carried no headsails and her foremast remained splintered like a warning to sailors who dared cross the shoals, _Windjammer_ ’s strong lines handled the fresh breeze well. Her main mast stood tall and proud, sail full in spite of all of her injuries – injuries that Niko had already begun to heal with his talented woodwork.

Past her bowsprit, Saria’s foreign coastline rose lush and green before them. Rolling hills were crowned with ancient stone monoliths that stretched the limits of credulity. The harbor entrance itself was an immense stone arch, tall and wide enough to fit a handful of fully rigged ships side-by-side. Like Halen’s cliffs its faces were decorated with frescos of creatures both mystical and mundane, flanked by two stories-high statues of figures that Félix couldn’t name. He couldn’t for a moment imagine how they had created works of such scale and complexity – or why.

“They’re an homage to Oreler and Ranael,” said one of the Regent’s men – the one with the god-magic they called ‘empathy’, stepping up to the rail beside him. “It’s Oreler to the north, rising from the soil with climbing vines wrapped around his legs. Ranael stands on the water at the southern side of the gate. Legend says that the effigies of kings of old once stood in their place, but were torn down and made anew at the beginning of the last age.”

“They had such abilities so long ago?”

“Saria is the oldest of the kingdoms – old enough that the story of its birth has long since passed East.”

There was a time when Félix would have scoffed at such fanciful words, but he had since learned to temper his judgment. After all, he had once scoffed at the notion that a woman’s song could make the flowers bloom – and yet he’d seen as much with his own eyes.

The memory of tucking a bright orange blossom behind Ehrin’s ear sprang to his mind’s eye. It felt as though a lifetime had passed since then, though it had only been a handful of weeks.

He longed to know this new city, to explore this strange countryside and put to rest more and more false thoughts that he had long held as absolute truth. Yet that was not to be his path. They would soon turn around and go back from where they came – for _Windjammer_ would have to pass through Wittenthor’s shoals before the season turned cold and stormy. Armathia would soon need every scrap of aid they could muster.

There was no time for leisure with war on the horizon – and before them lay the first of many partings that war would bring.

...

“How was the appointment with the harbormaster?” Valory asked, hopping up to sit beside Arden on the low-lying seawall. The harbor hummed with activity even this late in the day; Hammond and Imran had to keep stepping aside to make way for tall, fair-haried dockworkers pushing carts and carrying crates back and forth along the waterside.

“Ehrin handled most of it,” Arden replied, attention slipping at the sound of a foreign bird-call out in the harbor. He tracked the creature responsible as it dove into the cold waters of the bay in search of its prey. From there he looked east out of habit, though from their vantage point within the harbor it was no longer possible to see the white line of Wittenthor’s shoals on the horizon; their view was blocked by the arms of the enclosed bay on each side and, out front, the impressive arch that marked entry to Elvford.

“Something out in the water, Steward-mine?” Valory’s lips tipped up at the corner as Arden started, attention returning to the conversation once more.

“Just the bay itself, which has been enough for me,” Arden said.

Valory followed his stare. Elvford’s waterfront gave way to rocky beaches on each side: dark, stony strips of shoreline that looked nothing like Oceana’s bright, sandy coast. Out in the bay the late-afternoon fog had begun to roll in. It wasn’t the oppressive, dense blanket that had served as a harbinger of Ranael’s wrath on the day of the squall, but rather more of a low-lying mist that gave the air a damp chill as day turned to night. “Serves to remind us we’re far from home, doesn’t it?”

From Valory’s other side, Hammond cleared his throat. “Am I to gather then, Lord Arden, that _Windjammer_ is sorted and no longer requires your aid?” Hammond interjected.

“That’s correct,” Arden replied. “Ehrin drove a hard bargain on the travel lift and rigging materials. We were lucky: they salvaged a wreck that washed up on the shoals not a week past. We’re taking its mizzen mast.”

Ehrin had needed little input during the process, and in the end Arden couldn’t help but think that he and Félix had been present largely for show. He wondered whether or not she realized that.

“Good news,” Valory said. “It’ll cut their turnaround time.”

“The journey back will be hard enough without a departure date set late in the season,” Arden agreed, eyes straying to where _Windjammer_ sat in her dock slip, ready to be hauled out of the water early the next morning.

Neither mentioned the perils that faced the ship and her crew – there was little point in voicing such concerns aloud. Arden’s stomach twisted itself into knots each time he thought about leaving _Windjammer_ to make the passage without him. His only consolation was that, without Regent and Steward aboard, perhaps Zathár would see fit to leave them be. At least then the only danger ahead would be of nature’s making.

“Speaking of departures,” he continued, forcing thoughts of _Windjammer_ from his mind, “how was your errand?”

“Easy. We were expected. The man I spoke with has a coach at hand, and it’ll be ready for tomorrow morning. The only curiosity was that he had assumed we would send word to Oldred upon our arrival instead of departing straight away.”

Arden lifted a brow. “And why’s that?”

Hammond responded in Valory’s stead. “The King wished to send an armed guard to escort the coach. The roads are unsafe these days.”

“Unsafe, how? Have Zathár’s creatures come so far inland of the border already?”

“Nothing so extreme,” Valory said. “From what I understood, Carlin worries about highwaymen and the like.”

“These days it will be considered unusual that we travel without an armed escort, my Lords,” Hammond put in. “If we weren’t in such a hurry, I’d say our refusal was imprudent.”

Valory snorted. “We _are_ an armed guard. Carlin’s men would only make us a more enticing target.”

Hammond’s eyes dropped to Valory’s belt, then to Arden’s, where they wore full weaponry even ashore. “I suppose I hadn’t thought of it that way, my Lords – a point I must concede.”

“ _Oi, Jack!_ ”

Arden’s head snapped up, eyes scanning the docks without sign of who had shouted his name. As he looked past _Windjammer_ ’s dock slip to the south where the quay gave way to the stony, dark shoreline, he caught sight of Jonah jumping up and down waving his arms. The rest of the crew clustered some distance beyond them.

“Ehrin’s fire has finished, it seems,” Arden said. “Any further business before we join them?”

“Nothing on my part,” Hammond replied. “Would you spare your Lieutenant to escort me back to the vessel, my Lord?”

“You’re welcome to join us,” Arden offered. “It’s not uncommon for any man who ever knew a sailor to turn up for his memorial.”

Hammond shook his head. “Captain Callum had my highest respect and good wishes – but I know myself for an outsider. This is his daughter’s time to grieve.”

“I’ll be sure to share such sentiments on your behalf.”

“That is kind of you, my Lord. Thank you.”

Imran needed no more than a glance from Valory to divert to Hammond’s side and follow through on his request for an escort back to _Windjammer_ ’s slip. They passed him at a slow amble, giving him plenty of time to see Hammond set in his cabin and catch up with them by the time they reached the small fire pit Ehrin had made down the beach.

The harbormaster had found the request strange but had given her leave regardless, happy enough to grant a request that would appease Illen and Fángon with all the rumors of the Reckoning that were about. The dark, flat stones of Saria’s shores were an ideal choice to contain a fire, and Ehrin and the lads had left straight after their appointment with the harbormaster to choose their spot. They had been there since, and stood to clasp arms and slap shoulders as Valory, Arden, and Imran approached.

Ehrin sat on a pile of stones and driftwood beside the dying fire, Félix at her side. She sprinkled water from her jar on the smoldering embers at intervals, encouraging them to peter out and leave behind the ash and charcoal she sought.

“All set?” Arden asked.

“Just about,” she murmured without turning.

It was sailor’s tradition that if a man was sent to meet Illen without a body, some of his closest effects could substitute, for things a man loved in his lifetime were thought to hold a piece of his soul. Ehrin had gathered a handful of items from her father’s cabin: the sun-hat he’d worn until it was ragged, pieces of marlinspike work he’d repaired time and again, the set of prayer beads he’d carried for as long as Arden had known him. It was the best they could do with the rest of him lost at sea, and he hoped it was enough for Illen to find him.

As the last of the fire turned to ash, Ehrin bent forward and scooped what she could into an empty preserve jar. “I’ve found a nice little spot,” she said, eyes cast downward as she fixed the cap with a twist.

“Wherever you like,” Arden replied, reaching down to help her to her feet.

They fell into step behind her and Félix, a funeral procession of a sort, picking their way down the rocky beach to the arch at the mouth of the bay. Behind them the setting sun cast the stone in brilliant hues of orange and gold, illuminating the backs of Oreler and Ranael as they stood vigil over Elvford’s waters.

Ehrin led them to the spot where shoreline turned to jetty turned to sculpture, and scrabbled across to balance upon the carven spindrift of a stony wave. “This is it,” she whispered, looking out to a horizon lit violet with oncoming dusk.

Arden understood why she would pick such a spot. There was power and magic in these ancient effigies to the Gods – and here lay her best chance to beseech Ranael to watch over her father’s soul until Illen came to find him.

Ehrin bent, opening the jar and plunging her hands in up to the elbows to let Saria’s cold green waters carry a bit of her father out and away on the receding tide. Félix stood behind her, watchful, steady enough to support her weight when she leaned against him upon pulling the jar back from the sea. Imran, who had picked his way past them to crouch at Ranael’s feet, blew out a silent whistle – freshening the breeze for Illen’s sails – and the little gesture, remembered from Valory’s father’s funeral, nearly brought tears to Arden’s eyes.

“Fair winds and following seas, Da,” Ehrin whispered, setting the jar down. “Captain Illen will be lucky to have such a weathered sailor aboard.”

Arden touched two fingers to his brow, offering his own quiet prayers to Illen and Ranael on Callum’s behalf. He had spoken such words so many times – too many times – over the past months, yet for all the repetition they never grew any easier to say. The loss of a friend, a brother, a Captain, a lover – each dealt a blow to the spirit which made the next heartbreak all the fresher, the next loss still more raw.

Jonah hadn’t brought his fiddle but he had a fair singing voice without it, and began the first quiet notes of an old Kilcoranian song of mourning about sailing east across the sea. Some of the words were no longer spoken in Oceanic; they were relics from long-abandoned dialects whose meaning was felt more than understood by the ordinary sailor.

Arden’s eyes welled wet, fingernails biting into his palms at his sides. He had known he would leave _Windjammer_ one day, but he had never thought it would come to this – with Callum lost, with one of the eastern world’s hardest passages ahead of them, just at the time when _Windjammer_ would need him most.

Jonah sang on, words carried eastward on the offshore breeze, sun setting at his back. They were fitting words for such a parting, and for all the partings yet to come.

…

The morning they departed, none were in the mood for revelry.

Valory had woken with the sun to pull himself from Arden’s shipboard bunk for the last time. He checked and double-checked the packs laid side-by-side in the salon, counting them and making them ready to be loaded into the coach. In spite of everything Ehrin had risen early to prepare for their departure and had stuffed every spare inch of their packs with enough honey breads and lemon cakes to last half the journey to the capital.

Fog had rolled in overnight, lending a gloomy pallor to the early morning light. All remained quiet as they worked, speaking in hushed tones, unable to pierce the heavy-hearted mood that shrouded them. When it came to it and the coach arrived, Valory struggled to find words for the sailors that had risked all with him for the better part of a year. He knew no turn of phrase that could convey the depth of his gratitude for their bravery, their loyalty, their fierce devotion to _Windjammer_ and to one another.

The crew lined up on the dock to help load the coach and see them off. Theo and Lars chatted with their coachman – a surly mainlander with a lazy eye and a gruff manner – while the rest hovered around saying their final goodbyes. Valory clasped arms with each of them a half a dozen times, going round and round the crew yet still unable to pull himself or his men away to the coach where Hammond waited.

He was not unaccustomed to goodbyes. Indeed, the opposite was true; years of them had left him wondering whether he’d grown numb to the pain of parting. Although he’d feel the loss of _Windjammer_ and her crew on their northward journey, his struggles couldn’t compare to his Steward’s. Arden would mourn their absence far more.

“It is a hard thing, for a man to step away from his ship,” Félix said, the last of _Windjammer_ ’s crew to bid him farewell. He must have caught Valory watching Arden’s slow progress across the dock.

“ _Windjammer_ has been his home for the better part of twenty years,” Valory replied. It wasn’t until the words left his mouth that he truly considered what this parting would mean for his man. Arden had left Armathia to travel Oceana and its isles, seeing more of their nation’s shores in a pair of decades than most men would see in their lifetimes. Yet for all of his avoidance of a landed life, he had always had roots. A home that moved on wind and tide was still, after all, a home.

“It is his still, if he returns.”

Valory extended his arm. “I’m sure you’ll keep her whole and hale in his absence, Captain. May the wind be at your back.”

“ _And may the river run wide before you_ ,” Félix completed, taking Valory’s offered arm to clasp.

As they parted, Arden turned from the tight circle that the others had formed around him to make for the coach. He had foregone simple sailor’s clothing for attire befitting of a Steward; although his livery was serviceable and suitable for travel, the fineness of the embroidery wrapping proud from his chest over his shoulders made it clear that he was a man of no mean rank.

Valory’s eyes fixed upon the sight of his own crest at the center of it all, silver crescent moon sitting over Arden’s heart. He had grown accustomed to seeing his man wear his sigil, yet it never failed to affect him.

“We must get moving,” Arden said, coming to stand at his side, “else I’ll never be able to leave.”

“It’s time,” he agreed, watching Ehrin slip away from Niko and Jonah to join them, her expression stern in what appeared to be an attempt to wear a brave face for Arden’s sake. “I’ll wait by the coach.”

Arden pressed his shoulder in thanks before turning to catch Ehrin in a mighty last embrace.

Valory waited beside the door of the coach, ignoring the impatient staccato of Hammond’s tapping foot. Time was of the essence, true, but his own memories of watching Arden sail away from Anaphe were still all too vivid. He couldn’t grudge _Windjammer_ ’s crew their struggles with ‘farewell’.

Arden pulled away for the last time after speaking in Ehrin’s ear, words that were too muffled for Valory to catch on the breeze. He clasped Félix’s arm again for good measure, giving and receiving a hearty slap to the back. With a final wave to _Windjammer_ he turned for the coach. Imran, Gabriel, and Little flanked him, their usual bickering and buoyant chatter notably absent. Little hoisted himself up to sit beside the coachman; he had lost the hand of Ante that had given Imran and Gabe the preferred seats out the back.

“All set then, my Lords?” Hammond asked as Arden stepped up beside the coach.

Arden scrubbed the heels of his hands down his face, hiding his melancholy behind a mask of grim determination. “I apologize for the delay, Lord Hammond.”

“Shall we, then?”

Valory bristled at the impatience in Hammond’s tone. “If you need another moment…”

Arden shook his head. He clapped Valory on the shoulder, using him as leverage to boost himself up into the coach. “Let’s fetch your brother a bride.”

The coachman cracked his whip the moment Valory was in his seat. They lurched to a start, bouncing and rumbling over the uneven cobbles of Elvford’s dockside streets, gaining speed as the pair of horses that drew them picked up their pace into a steady trot. He and Arden shared a look of acute mutual misery before Arden turned away to stare out the window. _Windjammer_ and her crew receded into the distance.

Arden continued staring until long after Ehrin stopped waving, eyes trained on the top of the main mast as the coach followed the winding main causeway up through the center of town. It wasn’t until they were well past Elvford’s market that they finally lost sight of her. Arden turned away from the window, leaning back in his seat and shutting his eyes.

His brief tenure as Captain of _Windjammer_ had ended less than a week after it began.


End file.
